


United (We Stand)

by consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Avengers-influenced, Gen, Human Names Used, I hate writing summaries, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Three POVS, Watchmen-influenced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:28:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective/pseuds/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's life is satisfactory. His position in the SIS keeps him content; maybe he's not exactly not <i>happy</i>, but it's a decent life. But then he gets forcefully transferred out of the Service and thrust into a secret international security agency, and suddenly his life is an American action movie.</p><p>Alfred's been abruptly fired from his position as the US government's superhero-on-call. With nowhere to turn, he goes to his friends at the secretive organization known as Globe to beg for a job. And they give him one, all right.</p><p>Ivan is...doing whatever it is Ivan wants. At the moment he's freelancing as a white-hat hacker, and <i>he's</i> not having any employment issues. But when Globe decides to put together a motley group of extraordinary people to combat a superhuman terrorist organization, they want Ivan on the team, too. And what Globe wants, it gets. (It gets Ivan, and Ivan is not happy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character tags, relationship tags, and warnings will be added as they become relevant. As of the posting of the first chapter, I have five chapters fully written and I know exactly where the rest of the plot is going, but this will by no means be a quickly-updating fic. Just thought I'd put that out there.

The first thing Agent Arthur Kirkland sees on his desk when he arrives back from his mission is one of Control’s dread orange sticky notes. It reads simply, “Please see me after your debriefing. —C” He hasn’t even changed out of his shredded sweat-drenched suit and he’s still running hot on the buzz of post-success adrenaline, but he knows an ominous sign when he sees one.

 

The door to Control’s private office looks identical to any of the others in the building: lacking a nameplate, deliberately nondescript. Arthur knocks before entering, more out of habit than anything else. Control is fairly lax about procedures in-office.

“Ah, Merlin, come in, please,” a crisp voice calls from behind the door. Control’s uncanny ability to recognize the knocks of each of the five hundred people who work in the building is functioning at peak levels, it seems. Or perhaps it’s just the security cameras. Arthur pushes open the door, which is unlocked per usual. His boss sits behind a large, dark wooden desk. In place of the window that is present in some of the offices, Control’s back wall is dominated by the Union Jack.

Arthur tentatively pulls the orange note out of his pocket, holding it as if it might bite him. He sticks it down on the surface of the desk and sits down in the single chair positioned directly across from the room’s other occupant. Then he has to stand up again when Control asks him to close the door behind him.

When he reseats himself, Control has a file in front of him that hadn’t been there before. Arthur gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Is that…” he’s almost afraid to go on.

His boss nods neutrally. He pushes the folder across the desk.

Arthur looks down. The cover reads,

_Arthur Conan William Kirkland_  
Operations officer  
ID 51-30 0-7  
Codename Merlin 

Above all this is the emblem of the SIS. Arthur opens the file, knowing what he’s going to see on the first page. He’s suspected this was coming for a while now.

He isn’t disappointed. The leaf on the top of the thick stack of papers is his general information profile. It summarizes much of what’s on the next dozen or so pages, which go into extreme depth about his talents, attributes, and personal life. Behind those are case files, mission reports, statistics, etc. But the pertinent information is right there on the front, in red. _Retired_ , the new stamp reads. It blocks out part of his name. Control’s signature is scrawled below the mark in confirmation.

Arthur lifts his gaze and meets Control’s eyes. There’s some sympathy there, but no regret.

“I assume you don’t need an explanation.”

Former Codename Merlin nods mutely. His whole career with the SIS has been rocky, to say the least. That they’ve held onto him for five years can be attributed to the unusual nature of his skills, but not to his suitability for the job of secret agent, and certainly not to his personality. Despite what the public might think about spies working alone, the profession does require one to be personable, something Arthur’s always struggled with.

His initial acceptance into the Circus was almost solely due to the strength of his recommendations, post-graduation from the World Academy W. The Secret Intelligence Service liked to use WAW graduates, but usually they preferred students who specialized in information, intelligence, or tech services. Arthur’s situation was different, to say the least.

But he’d been one of the Academy’s best students in years, and a UK citizen to boot, which meant that the SIS had had preference with him. The organizations that typically took in WAW graduates could generally work around little problems like citizenship, and it would have been dead embarrassing, for Arthur and for England, if, say, the CIA ended up stealing him. But there was the little problem of what to do with him, once the SIS had taken him in. Their standard WAW graduate generally went directly into the spy business, but Arthur had a “different skill set”, as they liked to call it. This wasn’t America, after all. Heaven forbid a proper Englishman use a word like _superpower_.

(Americans are more open about the topic, which is one thing Arthur begrudgingly appreciates about them. Though their terminology leaves something to be desired.)

This isn’t to say that he doesn’t enjoy the work he does. Far from it. But for his fellow agents, working with him always seems to be a chore. The way he talks to his “imaginary friends”, they say, is unnerving and distracting. His “extranormal abilities” give him a superiority complex, they say. And his boss, Control, well, right now this is what he says:

“You’re not being _fired_.” What he means, Arthur thinks sourly, is _You’re being fired_. 

Control continues, “You’re being transferred.” Which doesn’t make any sense, because there is a stamp _right there_ that clearly indicates that he is no longer an active operations officer. Unless… They wouldn’t make him a paper pusher, would they? Even if it meant that he was able to stay within the SIS, Arthur doesn’t think he has the temperament to be a bureaucrat. He waits for Control to explain.

“You attended the World Academy W, correct?”

Control already knows that he did, but Arthur nods anyway.

“And you are aware that the Academy is run by the Global League for Intelligence and Law Enforcement, yes?”

Colloquially referred to as Globe, at least among WAW graduates and associates. Arthur keeps nodding.

“The Globe directorate has declared a state of crisis. I cannot personally disclose the reason for this at the moment. Globe Central has its own agents, as you know, but in this case, it has put in a request with us and other like organizations around the world for people with special talents like yours. You can begin work for them next week, giving you time to prepare any belongings you will need and sever ties with the SIS. You do have the option to refuse Globe’s offer. However,” and here he hesitates, “I do think that you would be wise to accept.”

What can Arthur do? He’s been ejected from the SIS. It’s not as if he’s going to have any other agencies lining up with offers. Of course he accepts.

o

The sudden knock on his flat’s door shocks Ivan out of the digital world and back into the tangible one. He hurriedly closes everything he’s got running on his desktop computer—ugly but functional, and the most expensive thing he owns—and performs his ritual wipe of the drive before turning everything off, mussing his hair, and going to answer the door.

“Yes?” he asks, feigning a yawn. “How can I he…” he trails off, eyeing the foreign badge the man standing in the hallway outside his door is holding.

“Am I addressing Ivan Zimich Braginsky?” asks the stranger. 

Ivan collects himself, trying to look shorter and unthreatening. Inwardly he scowls because it’d be difficult for anyone his height not to loom over this interloper, who is a good fifteen centimeters shorter than he is, at least.

“You are,” he concedes.

“By the authority of the Global League for Intelligence and Law Enforcement you are hereby ordered to report to the local Globe-RUS office immediately,” the man says, reading off a little white card.

Ivan has to laugh. He asks, “Are you sure that’s a real organization?”

The other man exhales a long-suffering sigh and stoops to open up a small briefcase sitting on the floor. He extracts a sheaf of paper and hands it to Ivan for his inspection.

His heart sinks as he reads. This “Global League” has apparently-legitimate authorizations, from the FSB and from the Russian state itself.

Ivan becomes aware that his smile is starting to be a little forced. He drops it altogether.

“When you said ‘immediately’, you meant ‘in the morning’, right?” he asks, not holding out too much hope. 

 

It’s snowing outside as Ivan follows the Global League man into the street.

They always come after midnight, he thinks sourly. At least he’s sure he hasn’t left anything possibly incriminating on his computer at home. Everything important he needs is stored offsite.

The other man hadn’t answered when he’d asked why he was being fetched, nor when he’d questioned him about the League’s purpose. When he’d asked if he was being arrested, he’d earned a shake of the head, but that wasn’t necessarily a good sign.

They move down the street. Ivan wonders why this Global League can’t afford to buy cars for its employees, especially the ones fetching unsuspecting hackers _in the middle of the night in the Moscow winter_.

He wraps his scarf tighter and continues to follow silently.

 

“Mister Braginsky. Please sit down.” The short League man has been replaced by a pair of slightly taller and similarly nondescript suits. A man and a woman, with identical smiles that Ivan decides are slightly ominous.

The room makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, for no particular reason. It doesn’t look like a permanent office, more like a halfhearted attempt to make the space seem like a place where official business is conducted, but it’s the wrong shape and the single desk, which separates Ivan from the other two, sits too far from the walls.

Ivan sits. He smiles politely and waits for one of them to speak first. There is a long minute of silence, but Ivan’s certainly not going to ask anything before he knows what’s going on. Questions can be more telling than answers, sometimes.

Finally the other man, presumably a Global League agent, says, “You should know, before we begin, that all information pertaining to Globe is highly classified.”

 _Nothing is classified_ , Ivan doesn’t say. _If you want to keep me quiet about some secret of yours, threaten me, but don’t patronize me_ , Ivan doesn’t say.

They don’t ask him to sign anything before continuing, which is a pleasant but also slightly worrying surprise.

The woman speaks now. “The Global League for Intelligence and Law Enforcement, also known as Globe, as you’ve heard my colleague say, is an organization for worldwide peacekeeping, independent of the United Nations or any other body you’d be familiar with. Our headquarters are changed annually. Currently Globe is based in Germany; further information than that I can’t give you just now. However, since Globe, by nature, deals with many different peoples, it also has subdivisions that are more regional. We’re Globe-RUS,” she says, gesturing at the empty room but probably speaking in a more general sense, “administrators to Russia and most of the former Soviet states.”

Ivan waits for her to get to the point.

“Now, Globe has many agents that work for it permanently, including ourselves,” she points at herself and her partner, who’s been nodding along, “but on occasion, when a state of crisis is declared and extensive measures are warranted, they will bring together a team of extraordinary individuals to counter a threat.” Here she pauses, visibly looking to see is Ivan’s still paying attention. He is. “Such a state of crisis has been enacted as of a few weeks ago.” Still no response from Ivan, and he can tell that he’s starting to make them fidgety.

The suited man sighs. “Globe would like to recruit you, Mister Braginsky.”

“Why?” he asks quickly, finally speaking.

“You’re the best computer hacker in the country,” says the woman.

So that’s it. “I’m just white-hat,” Ivan says, hoping to clarify what it is they want from him.

The two Globe agents exchange a meaningful glance at that. “Okay,” the man says inanely.

The woman leans forward. “Regardless, we would like to send you on a plane to one of the Globe training centers, where you’ll be briefed more thoroughly. Will you be ready to leave in two days? Oh, and can you speak English, or will you need a translator?”

Ivan is slightly baffled. “You haven’t asked me if I want this.” He can’t keep the edge of out his voice. Is this supposed to be a _privilege?_ What makes them think he wants anything to do with this Global League and their crisis?

Another look passes between the two. “Whyever not?” is the answer. Idiots.

“How much would I be being paid?” It’s not just the money, though. He doesn’t want anything to do with a law enforcement agency, no matter how fancy it pretends to be. And besides, it sounds as if he’d have to work closely with a team of others, which is _not_ his strong suit.

The sum they name, “tentatively”, they say, cements his resolve. He makes near twice that in his day job. He thanks them for the offer and politely refuses before telling them he’d like to return to his flat and get some sleep. He wants out of here, now.

But they won’t take no for an answer, it seems. There’s a _third_ look between the man and woman. Ivan decides that he should be worried.

“Mister Braginsky, we’re aware that your talents extend further than white-hat hacking,” says the woman.

Ivan can practically smell the attempt at extortion lurking under the desk. His hunch is confirmed when the man picks up a previously unseen case from the floor beside him and spreads its contents, an abundance of papers, out in front of Ivan.

So it’s going to be blackmail, then.

o

Alfred knocks on the door of the central Globe-USA office in D.C. He hopes that he gets to talk to someone he knows once he’s inside, but the Globe agents rotate all the time and it’s hard to be sure of who’s in which office at what time. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to find Agent Beilschmidt. He’s one of the cooler Globe guys. Most of them are just so stuffy and paranoid and generally unfun.

The door is opened by a junior agent Alfred hasn’t seen before. The agent recognizes _him_ immediately.

“Mister Jones!” he practically squeals. Alfred sighs internally while flashing a bright smile. Even Globe agents act so star struck when meeting him; it’s a little embarrassing, actually. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the attention.

The junior agent eagerly points him in Gilbert’s direction. He finds him busy yelling at some new Globe-USA recruits down in a training room, in the subbasement of the complex.

Alfred’s visited these rooms often. The Globe agents are great as sparring partners, and they’re really some of the only people who can hold their own against Alfred’s enhanced abilities.

This particular training room has been emptied of most of the equipment that usually occupies the extensive floor space, replaced now by thin padded mats, on which the recruits are grappling with each other in pairs.

Alfred steps into the room quietly, observing the wicked gleam in Gilbert’s eyes as he shouts drill commands at the battered, sweating new agents. He can tell that the German man is having a blast. The agents on the floor, not so much.

Alfred catches Gilbert’s eye with a wave and a grin. The albino nods, holding up all of his fingers. _Ten minutes_.

After Agent Beilschmidt abandons his panting charges to clear away the equipment by themselves, he and Alfred sit down in a small common room on the ground level.

Beilschmidt is technically superior to most of the agents who work in this office. The German works for Globe proper, rather than the USA branch that the agents here answer to. His position means he’s high-quality, but it’s also partly due to the fact that he, like Alfred, is a Super. A minor one, true, but an unusual one. Gilbert is the only Super with true flight on the Globe payroll, and probably one of less than a hundred in the world alive, in part owed to the wretchedly common purges of flyer bloodlines that had happened in the former half of the century.

So it’s a little disheartening sometimes, when people meet Gilbert Beilschmidt, to find that he’s actually nothing at all like a symbol of resistance and survival, and more of an obnoxious self-centered asshole.

He and Alfred had hit it off right away. He’s Alfred’s kind of asshole.

“So whatcha doing here, Jones?” asks the German now in only faintly accented English, seating himself at a table. Alfred slouches in his own seat, wondering how to put this.

He lets it all out. “Okay, so listen, I don’t want to sound needy, but last month Homeland Security decided they didn’t want a professional Super on their payroll and basically told me I had a week to clear out and find a new job.”

Gilbert whistles. “Whoa, can they actually do that?”

They can. “Anyway, I’ve been looking for a job for the last few weeks and I seriously cannot find anyone who’ll hire me.”

“You’re a public figure, man! America loves you! You’re just not looking in the right places!” Gilbert stands up and smacks Alfred upside the back of his head.

Alfred pulls at his hair ruefully. “I think the public figure thing makes it worse, actually.”

The agent sits back down with a thump. “So what’s up now?”

Alfred grimaces. “I’m actually here to beg for a job.”

That earns him the raised-eyebrow. “Alfred…”

He holds his hands up. “I know you guys have tons of employees already and you need field agents to go through all that training and stuff but do you maybe have a one-time thing I can do for a few months or something like that? I don’t need a permanent position in the org, but it’ll be easier to look for a new job if I’m not worrying about my personal financial issues, you know?”

“Alfred—”

“Please, Gilbert, you’re my only hope,” Alfred pleads, only half-joking.

Beilschmidt sighs, surrendering with a grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Alfred's former employment with the US Department of Homeland Security (which in reality was founded in response to the 9/11 attacks), the history of this AU is slightly altered, meaning that DHS _has_ been in existence for a while even in 1998/1999, when this story takes place. More to follow addressing DHS somewhere later in this story.


	2. Chapter 2

Apparently, the bastards at the Global League for Intelligence and Law Enforcement can’t even afford private flights for new recruits (or persons bullied into working for them). Ivan’s been told instead to be on the flight from Sheremetyevo International to Leipzig/Halle Airport, stopping over in Munich. It’s supposed to take five and a half hours.

Ivan is _not_ happy. He’s packed everything he needs, which is not a lot, and he’s currently sitting on the floor in his flat, seriously considering setting the whole thing afire and running away. His neighbors might get caught in it, but honestly, Ivan couldn’t care less.

What stops him is the thought that Globe-RUS has probably been keeping a close eye on him for the last day and a half, since his _hiring_ , making sure he doesn’t escape.

So instead he spends the next hour or so taking apart his computer into its component pieces, breaking all the bits that have any data on them. And then he takes the trash out for the last time.

On the way to the airport, he buys a copy of the _Moskovsky Komsomolets_ at a newsstand and, after a moment’s consideration, also picks up the English-language _Moscow News_.

Despite his attempts to stall, he arrives at the airport terminal before the plane is ready to leave. He ends up unfolding _MK_ , which he’d picked up partly because of the second headline on the front page: “ ‘GENERAL WINTER’ STRIKES AGAIN”.

“General Winter” has been _terrorizing_ —as the government has put it on multiple occasions—Moscow statesmen, on and off, for about five years now. His—or her, for all anyone, including law enforcement, knows—preferred routine has consistently included stripping corrupt or inept officials naked, branding them with the word “traitor” in third-degree _frostbite_ , and freezing them to the bricks in Red Square, all without being seen. The same night, compromising documents would be leaked online, destroying the victim’s career and pride over a matter of hours.

Despite the fact that every one of this menace’s victims has survived, the criminal or criminals have never been caught.

The media nickname “General Winter” had come from the American press, which tended to propagandize the as-yet anonymous individual or organization as a heroic vigilante symbol of anti-national sentiment within Russia. Many citizens of Moscow, Ivan included, are more inclined to see General Winter’s attacks as the work of a citizen utterly loyal to Russia, strengthening the country by weeding out the weak and selfishly dishonest within the upper ranks of government.

The article in _MK_ says that this latest attack had been discovered yesterday morning. General Winter had been active the same night Ivan had been called to the Globe office.

o

An unidentified terrorist group attacks a bridge in Chicago on Saturday morning, killing nineteen and wounding dozens more. Alfred, watching the news on TV, can’t help but think that if he’d been on the response team, those lives could have been saved.

He looks up the story online and notices some irregularities in a report given by a police officer. Phrases like “area blocked and quarantined” and “unidentified law enforcement agency” stand out like a bloody wound. Badly bandaged. Rumors of a quickly-covered-up message of some kind are surfacing.

There are already conspiracy theories arising on the net, and if Alfred hadn’t known of the existence of the Global League for Intelligence and Law Enforcement, he’d probably be contributing to the comment sections of a few of these.

Then, that afternoon, Agent Beilschmidt phones Alfred, explaining that he has a spot for him on some sort of special super secret initiative.

“What does that actually mean?” Alfred wants to know.

His sensitive ears pick up the rustle of fabric as Gilbert shrugs. “Sorry, line’s totally not secure. You want the job or not?”

Special super secret initiative? Sounds exciting. Plus he needs a _massive_ change from being a professional superhero and since he’s looking for a way to get out of all that, this could be it. And maybe he’ll be able to get the inside scoop on this terrorist attack.

Gilbert explains what he needs to do. “We’ve already got guys coming in from around the world, including some people you might know from school.” He means the World Academy W, Alfred assumes. “Do you think you can be on the… uh, give me a minute…” the line fills with vague background noise. Alfred can pick out the sound of tapping on a computer keyboard in the background. “Right, I’m back. Can you pack stuff for a probably super long stay at one of the facilities in Germany? It won’t be HQ. You’ll have your own rooms and stuff. I can book you on a flight on Monday and we’ll send a car over to pick up you and a couple of others and take you to the base. That sound okay?”

Monday might be tight, but he hasn’t got any real friends to make goodbyes to. “How long is super long?”

“Could be a few months, could be a year, could be more. Can’t tell you anything more specific now.”

Alfred whistles. “This initiative, it’s a team thing?”

“Yeah. You’ll like it.”

Alfred thinks. “Okay. Right. I’ll pack. When does the flight leave?”

“I’ll bring over a file to your apartment with all the details. You’re still living in that Manhattan place, right?”

 

Gilbert shows up a few hours later. As soon as he’s inside, he gets down to business. “Flight info and other transport things are in here,” he says, passing Alfred an envelope. “You’ll hear more details about the mission objective once you get to the base near Leipzig, but I can tell you a few things now. Globe’s declared a state of crisis in response to a series of recent terrorist attacks. You won’t have heard of this yet. That bombing in Chicago was only the latest of many. This has happened in more than a dozen different countries so far, but Globe’s managed to keep most of the news of these attacks from crossing international borders in order to reduce the possibility of panic. A group that calls itself Terram Ustam has claimed all of the attacks, and we have no evidence to refute this. Have another thing,” he says abruptly.

Alfred takes the offered file and opens it up. Ten seconds later, he snorts. “This says they’ve threatened to ‘destroy the human race as we know it’ by the year 2000.” Then he stops laughing, seeing Gilbert’s expression, which is unusually serious.

“The directorate considers them a serious threat. We’ve put together a pretty big international team, mostly European, plus you and some others if we can get them.”

“Uh huh,” Alfred says stupidly.

Gilbert gets up after an awkward moment of silence. “I’ll be flying in a couple of days after you. I’m supposed to be in charge of handling the freak show—I mean you and your new buddies—but we won’t have everyone in until the end of the week and I’ve gotta wrap up some business in the USA office. You’ll be kinda on your own for a day or so. Make some new friends or something.” He starts to leave, throwing Alfred a shrug.

Alfred gets up to see him out. “I’ll figure it out. I’m great at making friends,” he says, grinning a little forcedly.

Agent Beilschmidt nods, pausing at the door. “One more thing. For this operation, you’ll only use your personal name in secure locations. Only codenames will be used off-base. Yours is America.”

o

“I don’t see why I’m being placed on this allegedly _critical_ initiative if I’m just a new recruit,” Arthur gripes. “I mean, I do have a life. I can’t just pack my things and go to Germany.”

He’s slumped on the sofa in the flat he shares with Andrew, one of his three brothers. Andrew is currently sitting next to him, reading a book and halfheartedly listening to him rant.

“Have you even been listening to me?” Arthur asks.

Andrew looks up. “Relax, secret agent man. You’ll be fine.”

“That is not at all what I’ve been talking about!”

“Hm?” Andrew is looking back down at his book.

“I mean, those fucking Globe people think they own everyone who passes through Academy doors. I had a job already. I mean, sure, I couldn’t say it was my ideal job but still, they can’t just pull me out and stick me into some stupid _team_ thing. You know how I feel about working with other people,” he says, trying to hold Andrew’s attention and failing.

“Do you know what they’re paying me? It’s not even _near_ what the Circus paid. And—”

His brother sets the book down with a sigh. “Look, you’ve been complaining about this crap for a week. Will you just be thankful you’ve still got a bloody job?”

Arthur sits up and glares. “How do you expect me to be able to keep my dignity if I just let—“

“Shut _up_ and go pack already or you’re going to be late.”

o

The weather as Alfred’s plane lands at Leipzig/Halle Airport—which, he has learned, is neither in Leipzig nor Halle but slightly north of a town called Schkeuditz—looks actually not so different from what he’d left in New York: cold, cloudy, and drearily grey.

His ride is supposed to arrive at noon, local time. There are two others, who’ll be on this team of his, who are supposed to arrive after him.

He doesn’t go to the baggage claim. Gilbert’s arranged for most of the things he needs to be delivered tomorrow.

Instead he goes to look for something to eat, even though it’s not really lunchtime. After wandering around for a while in the terminal, he resigns himself to eating a turkey sandwich. It’s not a hamburger, but it’ll do.

Surprisingly, nobody’s recognized him yet. It might be because he’s wearing glasses instead of his usual contact lenses, or maybe Germans just don’t care about American celebrities—though this _is_ an international airport—but either way, it’s refreshing, being able to buy a meal and stroll around a public place without being mobbed. It’s also a little disappointing, because he wouldn’t have signed up for his old job if he didn’t love being the center of attention, but it’s nice to be able to take a break, at least.

He spends some time trying to figure out where his new teammates are coming from, but there are too many flights on the arrival board. He switches to working on a crossword puzzle.

Finally, a little before noon, he goes outside. There’s someone standing on the curb with a sign with “International Bird Watchers’ Society” handwritten on it in bold marker. Alfred heads for it, as instructed by his file, which is currently stashed away in the backpack he’s wearing over a shoulder.

The car’s not here yet, the woman holding the sign tells him, and it’s going to be late. She introduces herself as Agent Héderváry, “Globe recruiter and cat wrangler,” as she describes her job. She’ll be functioning in roughly the same capacity as Gilbert, for this particular initiative.

Agent Héderváry’s a little shorter than Alfred and speaks in an accent almost like Gilbert’s, but with a little something else in it that Alfred can’t place.

“Héderváry isn’t a German name, is it?” he asks, curious.

The agent shakes her head, willing to make conversation. “My ma’s Romani and my dad’s Hungarian. I actually grew up in Vienna, though.” She starts tying her cocoa-colored hair into a ponytail.

Alfred nods and refrains from asking where Vienna is.

Héderváry notices the look on his face. “It’s in Austria,” she says, looking like she’s trying not to laugh. “You Americans,” she snorts.

Alfred grins sheepishly and flushes, looking away.

Which is when he sees the tall man in the scarf.

He looks slightly lost, standing just outside the airport building. He’s carrying a medium-sized duffel bag in one hand, a long taupe-colored coat draped over the other arm. Despite the fact that it’s rather chilly out here, he’s only wearing a white t-shirt and looks perfectly comfortable. His hair, almost beige, looks like feathers when the breeze lifts it up.

Alfred’s not even sure why this particular guy has caught his attention, but at that moment, he turns toward Alfred. Agent Héderváry seems to recognize him at the same time, and raises her sign a little higher.

The guy in the t-shirt spots the small group that Alfred and Héderváry make, and begins to walk toward them in obvious relief. Despite his solid build and tall frame, the way he holds himself manages to make him seem unobtrusive, inconspicuous. Alfred can admire that; he’s got a cousin who has that technique down to an art, but he’s also a Super who can turn invisible.

Héderváry greets the newcomer with visibly less enthusiasm than she had Alfred, and introduces herself again.

“This is Codename America,” she says, gesturing toward Alfred, who sticks out a hand enthusiastically, his best movie-star grin in place. “America, this is Russia,” the agent says. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

Codename Russia takes Alfred’s hand and shakes it, almost shyly. “Pleased to meet you,” he says quietly.

Alfred doesn’t know why, but he’s already got a good feeling about this guy, personal opinions on Russians aside. He _likes_ him. He grins at him, more sincerely now. “You too,” he says, and means it.

“ _You?_ ” The moment is interrupted by an incredulous English voice. Alfred turns, only to see _him_.

Arthur Kirkland. Now that does take Alfred back.

Kirkland had been three classes ahead of him in the Academy. The year Alfred began his first term, Kirkland had been Head Boy, academic champ, and the school’s star athlete in track, rugby, and football. He’d been the golden boy, Alpha of the student body. Most of the agencies that pulled from WAW graduating classes had been eyeing him since his second year. In other words, Arthur Kirkland had been _the_ top of the Academy social ladder.

 _Had been_.

Until freshie Alfred Fitzgerald Jones from the good ol’ USA left New York for the first time, bumped Kirkland out of the titles for five or six records in athletics and managed to simultaneously become a teachers’ favorite and the most popular teenager in Hong Kong.

What would have been Arthur’s triumphant exit from an exemplary four-year career at the Academy turned into a year of being overshadowed by a thirteen year-old American.

Alfred couldn’t really blame the British boy for hating him immediately. They’d kept up amiable appearances in public, but that year hadn’t gone well for either of them.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks. He looks positively _horrified_.

“What are _you_ doing here?” counters Alfred.

Agent Héderváry intervenes before anyone can say something horribly tactless. “Codename England,” she says, nodding in his direction, “you know Codename America already, and this is Codename Russia.” An ugly moss-colored minivan pulls up beside the group. “And this is the car. Everyone, get in.”

o

Codenames America and England are not what Ivan had been expecting. The Globe-RUS people hadn’t give him much information about the operation, true, but he’d been expecting something other than… well, look at them.

America, for one. Ivan had recognized him as soon as he’d seen him. Alfred F. Jones. He doesn’t know what the F stands for or if that’s even his real name, but regardless, it seems a bad idea to include such a publicly known person in a team meant for—from what Ivan’s gathered—serious covert operations. Not to mention his overlarge personality, which is bewildering to Ivan. He’s never been too interested in American celebrities, but Jones is a celebrity… Super, they call them, Ivan recalls. People with weird genetics, or something like it. He’s never done much research on that, either.

Jones has the classic complement of super strength and enhanced healing; that, Ivan knows. He’s also heard that the American has superior hearing. He imagines, with some concern, that that might lend itself to eavesdropping, and Ivan likes his privacy.

All that in consideration, Jones, or Codename America, is a bit of a puzzle. He has a reputation for fearlessness, flashy-but-effective heroics, and a capability for ruthlessness where required. It doesn’t quite add up to the bouncy, overexcited young man currently chattering away and sitting in the middle of the bench in the car, to the right of Ivan. If he hadn’t been looking so closely, he might have mistaken America for an idiot. Ivan wonders if his apparent personality is genuine, or a façade, meant to encourage others to let their guards down.

Codename England is a different story. Clearly he knows America from somewhere previous, but not in a positive respect. What Ivan can discern of his personality is that he’s almost as unsocial as Ivan himself, as he’s slouching in his seat, far from the other two as possible, staring dejectedly out of the window.

Ivan realizes that Codename America is nudging him, saying something.

He tosses an apologetic smile toward the other man. “Sorry? I did not hear the question.”

America waves his uncertainty off. “Nah, man, it’s okay. I was just wondering what your set was. We’ve got Magic Merlin over here, super stone cold kid,” he says, flapping his hand in front of England’s face, “and I’m, you know, the Hero,” Ivan can actually hear the capital H, “so who are you?” he concludes, holding an invisible microphone in Ivan’s face.

Ivan blinks in renewed confusion. How is he expected to answer this question? How much do his future teammates already know about him? How much, for that matter, does Globe Central know? It would be a mistake to think that Central, despite its authority over the regional offices, knows everything that Globe-RUS did. Ivan _knows_ how organizations like this work.

Plus, half of what America had said went right over his head. He can’t even tell if the words he’s using are actual colloquialisms or just gibberish made up on the spot.

Agent Héderváry, the Hungarian woman, saves him from answering. She twists from her position in the front passenger seat of the vehicle to address America. “He’s going to be the team’s cyber security expert.” _That’s_ a delicate way of putting it. Ivan had gotten the impression that he’ll be doing a lot of breaking and entering.

America hears what she means, too. He grins. “You’re a _hacker!_ Man, I knew I liked you for a reason.” Ivan can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.

o

Arthur suppresses a shudder as he listens to Jones’s attempts at conversation with Codename Russia.

Who, by the way, has beat Jones out as the last person Arthur wants to be working with. _Really_ , the only hacker Globe could find has to be a Russian? They’re going to put a Russian hacker in one of the only places in the world with access to classified files from security agencies all around the world, and sure, Globe is an international organization but one would think that the _Germans_ currently steering Central would be sane enough to think twice before risking _this_. It’s a security breach just waiting to happen.

“So where are you from?” Alfred is asking the Russian.

“Moscow,” comes the quiet answer. Arthur’s never trusted quiet people.

Why _is_ Alfred so eager to get chummy with Codename Russia anyway? He’s a bloody _American_ ; he should be even more distrustful than Arthur himself.

Quite the opposite, though, it seems. He’s still trying to engage Russia. “So what kind of thing did you do back home? Like, for your job.” And then, not waiting for the other man to respond, “Wait, no, let me guess. I bet you’re a super hard-core hacker, and you used to break into way secure systems until you got caught and you’d been languishing in the Gulag for years until the Globe guys heard how good you were and got you out in exchange for your services, am I right?” Jones sprouts a goofy grin.

Arthur snorts internally. The Russian might be big, but he doesn’t look like the type that would survive even six months in a work camp. The permanent apologetically confused look on his face says it all.

There is the quietness, though. It’s true what people say: it’s the quiet ones you have got to watch. Quiet people always have secrets.

“I worked as computer security consultant,” Russia corrects Jones gently. “Also the Gulag has not been active for almost fifty years.”

Arthur _doesn’t_ snort. Trust the American to be completely oblivious.

 

The Globe facility is modest, not very impressive on the surface. The car pulls in between two rusty old gates. There’s a sign that’s so worn it’s almost unreadable, and since Arthur doesn’t know German anyway, he assumes it marks the compound as something unspeakably boring, a place no-one would be looking for or even care to peek inside.

There’s a short gravel road, buildings of middling size edging it, and then there’s the main building, which is a gloomy concrete monstrosity the color of rain clouds. Inside is a different matter, though, as Arthur and his fellow newcomers see once they remove their things from the boot of the car.

“Nice place,” Russia remarks, tugging his scarf down. It’s the first thing Arthur’s heard him say without prompting.

Jones whistles in agreement, and Arthur has to admit that he’s equally impressed.

Once past the doors and a small, dingy vestibule, the space opens up abruptly. He guesses that the large room he’s standing in takes up half of the floor space of the building. On this level, that is. The floor he is currently standing on is perfectly transparent, and below him he can see another room just as large. It looks like a training gymnasium. There are a couple of expensive-looking lifts in a wall nearby. Arthur would be willing to wager that the facility extends quite far down.

On another wall, there are a couple of flashy-looking computer terminals. The wall opposite of where they’re standing is also glass, through which Arthur can see another room, though the lights are out just now. The thin beams crisscrossing the transparent floor are a light burnished copper. The ceiling is a _gorgeous_ painted map of the world.

Everything’s so shiny.

Agent Héderváry comes up from behind them, grinning. “Like it, boys?” They nod. “Offices, etcetera, are on this level and the one above us. Basement level one is the gym and assorted other facilities,” she says, pointing through the glass. “Basement level two is where most of us live. I’m supposed to take you there now.”

“No time to explore? Pretty please?” Jones practically begs, eyes fixed on the dozen or so people on the level below them. The equipment does look pretty nice.

Héderváry assures them they’ll have plenty of time to wander after they settle in, then herds the trio into a lift. Inside, she continues her spiel.

“Basement three is storage and things. It’s not as big as basement two, which is the biggest. We’ve got some additional training areas here on basement level two, by the way,” she says. The lift _dings_ and they step out into a wide, well-lit corridor. Héderváry leads the way.

“Where was I? Right, basement three, we don’t need to go down there too much. Basement four is the Dungeon… uh, what else, we have conference-type rooms on every floor for mass debriefings and—“

“Excuse me,” Arthur interrupts. “Did you say ‘the Dungeon’? We have a dungeon?” He can tell that the other two are curious about this, as well.

They’ve reached a door. The agent stops walking and pulls out a key card. “Well, I hope you’re not too uncomfortable with this, but this particular compound is also used to house most of the maximum-security Globe prisoners in this region. I think we do Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, and Poland. Something like that. I don’t actually usually work in this facility,” she explains apologetically, unlocking the door for them and ushering them through.

The space opens out into what seems to be a large common room. There are some assorted sofas and chairs showing varying degrees of wear, pushed to the center of the floor along with a couple of short tables and a lone empty shelving unit.

Agent Héderváry scratches her head. “I guess furniture arrangement is up to you.”

Three additional doors, propped open to each reveal more hallway, are positioned at equal intervals along the wall of the octagonal room. The agent points at them. “Your quarters are through there. This section’s been reserved for your team, and you’re the first ones here, so you can each pick whatever room you want.”

Arthur looks down the hallways. The doors he can see all look exactly the same. “Are the rooms any different from each other?”

Héderváry plops down on an armchair. “Nope. Though the ones at the fronts of the corridors are closer to the mess.”

Jones, who’d disappeared down the hall to the left, pops back out. “Mess? Where’s that? How’s the food here? Do you serve hamburgers?”

Arthur sighs and goes to find himself a room.


	3. Chapter 3

Ivan doesn’t unpack his things. Codename America had enthusiastically suggested that he pick a room near his own, and Ivan hadn’t wanted to argue. He’d picked the first room in the right-hand hallway—America had picked the second.

Now, instead, he sets the duffel bag down on the bed and looks around. He doesn’t doubt that this room—along with all the others—is bugged in more places than he’d be able to find. Disabling them would be more suspicious than anything Globe could see or hear through them anyway, so he doesn’t waste his time looking for them.

In addition to the bed, which is a white-sheeted single with one thin blanket folded on top, there’s a small bedside table, a chest of drawers, a closet, and some shelving bolted to the wall, all equally nondescript. The room doesn’t have a bathroom, but there’s a shared one down the hall.

The room is small but discouragingly open, exposed. The whole of it consists of a single sharp rectangle painted a light beige. There is only one exit, the door that opens out onto the shared corridor. In the wall above the bedside table, there’s what appears to be a small communications panel.

In the closet, Ivan finds a thicker bedspread and a fold-out desk. There are no hangers, but the only thing he would really like to hang is the coat he’s been carrying for the last hour or so. He drops that on the bed, too.

After dragging the desk out from the closet, he leans it against the wall beside the door, leaving it folded up. He doesn’t have anything to put on it, but if Globe gives him a computer he can use in the room, it’ll be useful to have. Also, it’s the heaviest object in here that is also readily portable, and he likes to have all his resources accessible.

Then he sits down on the bed, thinking.

He doesn’t unpack.

o

“There’s a telephone call waiting for you upstairs, if you’ve got a minute.” Agent Héderváry pokes her head into Arthur’s room.

He looks up, nearly finished unpacking the couple of bags he’d brought. “Oh? Who from?”

That earns him a cryptic grin from the agent. “The French office.”

Who does Arthur know in Globe-FRA? Nobody that he can think of. “Okay, but who?”

Héderváry’s grin widens further. “Francis Bonnefoy.”

 

“Little Arthur! So we are going to be working together again, oui?”

Arthur lets Francis hear him groan, but he can’t help smiling a little. “I’m not that little,” he reproves.

They’d been in the same class at the World Academy W. Despite the odd cultural clash, their relationship had been the healthiest kind of competitive. After graduation, they’d exchanged contact information on a whim, and over the last few years, the friendly antagonism between them had grown into something resembling actual friendship.

“Also,” Arthur adds, “I don’t believe I can recall us ever working together before.”

“Ah, yes, always so hostile, little Arthur.” He can hear the Frenchman’s sigh over the line. “I always thought we could have been wonderful friends in school if you had not always… what is the phrase? Had a stick up the arse?”

“Hey! That’s not fair.”

Francis ignores him, continuing in a teasing voice. “I still think that you were made Head Boy because you are English. Oh, but how did I forget? You Britons returned Hong Kong a couple of years ago! How does it feel, now the Academy is on Chinese land?” Ouch. That did sting a little, Arthur realized. The Academy _had_ been built under British rule. When he’d heard that the school would be handed over along with the rest of the island, he’d felt miserable. It might be selfish of him, even a little egotistical, but it still felt kind of raw.

“Don’t patronize me, you sound like an idiot,” Arthur says, a little sharply.

The line quiets for a second or two before Francis speaks again, more seriously. “I am sorry. This is not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Arthur _mm-hm_ s. “All right, you arsehole.”

“So, I am sitting in the Globe-FRA office, and I am thinking, this is an international team, and I am Codename France, and there must be a Codename United Kingdom or England or something like this, and of course I think of you right away because you are great for this kind of thing! And this agent is trying to convince me to do this, and he says there will be people from school, and so I ask him who the Briton is going to be, and he is very reluctant to tell me things because _secrets_ , you know… Anyway, finally he tells me it is you, of course, and so now, some days later, I am calling you because I do not need you to faint when you see my beautiful face tomorrow morning.”

Arthur chokes back a laugh. Then what Francis has said registers fully. “You’re going to be part of this Globe project?”

“Oui! Yes! Did you not hear me?”

“How did _you_ get involved in this? I thought you had that stupid cooking television program you were starring in? Ratings going up and all, last time you e-mailed me?” says Arthur.

Francis makes a pathetic noise. “You do not want me to be there?”

Arthur isn’t sure if the Frenchman is genuinely hurt or simply teasing. “I didn’t mean that. I just thought you were doing pretty well for yourself. Why are you dropping everything to come to Germany to work with the likes of me?”

Francis sounds unperturbed. “It will be very exciting! Is it not an honor to be included on the team that will save the world?”

It hits Arthur then. In all his disgruntlement over being forced from his old job, he’d not really considered the magnitude of the task set before him and his soon-to-be teammates. They’re actually going to be involved in the attempted takedown of a global terrorist organization. They’re actually going to try to save the _world_ , absurd though it sounds.

Now that he thinks about it, now that he’s alone but for Francis calling from a country over, it doesn’t sound so bad.

“Arthur? Are you still there?”

Arthur realizes that he’s smiling. “You’re right. It’ll be fun.”

 

On his way back down to basement level two, Arthur bumps into Codename Russia, literally.

“Sorry,” the bigger man says with another one of those infuriating apologetic smiles, helping Arthur to his feet before going on his way. The whole incident takes less than ten seconds, but for some reason, Arthur can feel himself shivering.

o

There is something _wrong_ about that Codename England, Ivan decides. When he’d helped him up, he could have sworn that he’d seen sparks fizzling between the other man’s fingers. He’ll need to do some more research on his new teammates, he decides. But first, he needs access to a computer terminal.

Upstairs, on the ground floor, he’d seen some computers, but they were too out in the open. He needs something more private. He heads upstairs anyway.

 _Offices_ , that agent had said. Private personal offices, or general use? The former would be better suited to his purposes.

After ducking down a couple of hallways on the first floor, he finds an area that is deserted, for the moment. He picks a door and knocks. The nameplate on the wall next to the door reads “Hans Wagner, Stellvertretender Direktor/Deputy Director, Globe-GER”.

Which means, basically, that he’s high-ranking enough to have a computer inside his office and a security clearance good enough to get Ivan into the Globe central computer files. Provided, of course, that Herr Wagner isn’t currently in his office.

Ivan waits, but nobody comes to answer his knock. So after checking again to be sure that there’s no one around, he kneels down to work on the lock.

If the door had had a normal lock-and-key mechanism, Ivan would probably have been out of luck. The same if he’d required a key card or other ID, but to his fortune, the only thing keeping him out is an electronic keypad lock. Four digits only. Ha.

It seems like such a security oversight on Globe’s part, to implement such rudimentary security measures, but then again, there’d been a facial and vocal check at the front gate, and the locks on the external doors, plus the obviously-placed security cameras in strategic locations around the entrance and probably other areas—which reminds him, he should probably locate the security hub of the compound at some point, so he can figure out where all the cameras are located, and how to access the feeds.

And speaking of cameras, there’s one a couple meters away on the wall. But this is a Globe base, not a prison. Security won’t be paying much attention to activity in the administrative portions of the building, but more likely the exterior, and possibly the “Dungeon”, if there are any prisoners currently being held there. Something else to check up on. But one thing at a time…

Every touch leaves a trace. With fingers, this trace is particularly noticeable. And on the flat, plastic buttons of this keypad, Hans Wagner’s fingerprint smudges are going to let Ivan into his office.

The numbers 1, 8, and 9 show clear signs of use, the 8 slightly less than the others, which can’t reliably tell Ivan much. The rest of the digits look pristine, which unfortunately means that one digit is repeated, increasing the number of possible combinations.

Although… Ivan wonders if it could be that simple. Given the particular numbers, well…

He mentally chastises himself for neglecting to pack disposable gloves, and carefully uses his fingernails to tap the digits 1-9-8-9.

 _Click_ goes the lock.

Ivan grins.

Inside, Hans Wagner’s office is impeccably neat. Binders lined up on a shelf, color-coded and all the same height. Locked and labeled filing cabinets. No personal effects, like family photos or even a decorative wall chart.

The surface of the small desk against the wall is shiny and clean except for a small tray full of paper clips and, to Ivan’s delight, what appears to be a _very_ nice desktop computer. It’s unbranded, and he doesn’t recognize the model.

He powers it on. Wagner’s account, which he needs in order to access the Globe database, is password-protected, which is to be expected.

Time to do some hunting. Because in his experience, nearly everybody writes passwords down in idiotically accessible places. _Especially_ the organized-minded, which Wagner seems to be, given the state of his office. He could try to guess the password, given what he knows about the man, but that’s not a lot, even knowing his choice of door code and apparent preference for neatness. Plus there’s no guarantee that Wagner’s password will have any sentimental connotation.

The more obvious places, under and behind the desk, Ivan eliminates quickly. The locked cabinets he leaves alone, lacking the skill to open them. He could go through the binders, but that would require painstaking work, and Ivan doesn’t have that much time.

The single drawer under the desk is locked, which is actually the most probable place left, but forcing it open, though possible, is an unacceptable option in this situation.

Anyways, he gets lucky a minute later, crawling under the desk and feeling behind the drawer, on a hunch. He can barely slide his hand into the gap, but he brushes against a piece of smooth tape on the second sweep of his fingertips, and then it’s short work to pull it away. He mentally notes the orientation of the small piece of paper and hopes that he can replace it passingly well.

The paper is an arbitrary combination of numbers and letters. The writing looks neat and the paper new, indicating that Wagner is good with password-rotation protocols. Unfortunately, while changing passwords often is a good way to avoid being hacked by outsiders, it also tends to make recalling those passwords more difficult. Hence the note taped to the back of the drawer, Ivan’s magic ticket.

He logs in as Wagner and navigates slowly through the Globe database, thankfully in English, trying to familiarize himself with the unfamiliar keyboard layout. After some searching, he opens a folder labeled “International Initiative 1999”. It takes him to several other files, including the one he wants: “Personnel”.

A very satisfied grin stretches his face as Ivan gets reading.

 

Before Ivan logs out of Wagner’s account, he writes himself a backdoor and erases his tracks as well as he can, which is quite well indeed, but he doesn’t know what kind of notes Globe’s computers might automatically take and he hasn’t got time to do a thorough survey of the system.

He checks a clock on the wall, wipes down the keyboard and mouse as well as possible and replaces the taped note behind the desk drawer.

He gets back to his room just over an hour after he’d left. Belatedly, he wonders if the he and his two fellow new recruits are being tracked. It seems likely.

But nobody shows up to throw him into the Dungeon, and if anybody cares that he’s been rooting around in Globe’s secure files, they’re not saying.

o

Alfred spends most of the first day sneaking around the Globe base, scoping out the territory. Héderváry’s introduction to the compound had been lacking, as far as summaries go. Besides, Alfred’s always been a do-it-yourself kind of guy.

There’s the gym, which is even bigger than it looks from the top, and a ton of boring-looking offices, and the mess, which Alfred finds by just using his ears, for practice. They don’t serve hamburgers, as far as he can tell, but it’s not dinnertime yet.

There are a lot of doors that say _Keep Out_ , in both German and English, which of course means that Alfred just has to explore these areas. He gives up a word of thanks that he and his cousin Matthew had spent a childhood summer teaching themselves to pick locks.

The compound’s doors are an unusual mix of traditional Yale locks and the electronic kind. The more interesting-looking rooms require a key code or an ID card, but Alfred can still use his talents to get into various storage areas, for example, where there are all sorts of interesting stuff. Weapons, for example. Also all sorts of snazzy-looking equipment.

Alfred doesn’t touch anything, of course. But he makes careful note of the contents of each of these stockrooms, in case of… _emergencies_.

Once he’s satisfied that he knows how to get around the compound easily, he returns to the second basement to unpack.

Agent Héderváry had disappeared a few hours previous, but she reappears around dinnertime to tell them a few things.

“Everyone else on the team should be here by the morning after tomorrow,” she says, looking kind of fiercely hassled. “That’s when we’ll do formal introductions and the mission brief. Until then, you’re on your own. Try not to get into trouble.”

Alfred suppresses a guilty look. And is he imagining things, or are the other two new recruits doing the same?

 

After less than twenty-four hours at the Globe base, Alfred finds himself bored out of his mind. It’s _so_ incredibly dull, sitting in his room with nothing to do. He’s brought a few books to read, but he’s not in the mood. Hence: bored out of his mind.

So he decides to walk the ten feet to Codename Russia’s room and do a little meet-and-greet.

He only has to knock once before the door opens.

“Hello?” Russia pops his head out.

Alfred decides to just go for it and says, “You know, we didn’t really introduce ourselves earlier. I mean, I know Globe likes to be totally secretive and keep everything classified but I just thought it might be nice to get to actually know each other. I’m Alfred. Alfred F. Jones.”

Russia just looks at him. A flicker of suspicion crosses his face before the expected smile comes up. “Oh, uh.” He only hesitates for a moment longer before opening the door wider and introducing himself. “Ivan Zimich Braginsky.”

Alfred beams. “Cool! Listen, Ivan—can I call you Ivan?—if you’re not doing anything, wanna come sit out in the common room with me? We can chat, gripe, whatever you like…” he trails off, flashing his world-famous grin.

Russia—Ivan—caves, himself looking relieved to alleviate the monotony of life down here.

They move some chairs around. Alfred claims a plush red armchair, plopping heavily into it.

“So, tell me about yourself!”

o

Ivan curses internally, struggling to keep his face pleasant.

This is why he doesn’t work with others. _Socializing_. That kind of casual disclosure of personal information is exactly the sort of thing he tries to avoid. Why couldn’t he just have acted like an asshole when he’d first met Jones? Surely that would have saved him from this conversation. At least, talking in English, he’ll be spared deeper scrutiny for his hesitation.

He summons himself back to the moment. “My life is not very interesting,” he says, dismissive.

Should he ask about the American’s career as a professional superhero? People like that sort of thing, don’t they? Show interest in Jones’s accomplishments, stoke his ego, do some information-gathering, _steer the topic away from Ivan_ …

Before any of that can happen, though, the other man leans forward, waving his hands, “Nah, I bet you’ve got some stories. Hackers are so romanticized in the US and you know, there’s got to be some truth to it. So what’s it like?”

Ivan looks at him blankly. “What?” he asks, stalling.

“Like, have you ever broken into any super top-secret systems? Just for fun? Like in the movies?” Ivan is starting to have serious suspicions about this conversation. Is Jones asking out of genuine interest, or has Globe put him up to this?

“Of course not,” he responds, furrowing his brow. “I was only security expert before this. My job was for helping companies test and improve their systems.”

The reminder makes Jones pause for a minute. “You’ve never done anything spectacularly illegal before?” he finally asks in thinly veiled disbelief.

“Of course not,” Ivan repeats. A lie, of course. Otherwise, he’d still be back in Moscow, comfortably happy in his life.

Jones drops the subject, looking disappointed, but over the next half hour still manages to squeeze a surprising amount of personal information out of Ivan. Nothing _too_ sensitive, of course. But still quite a lot more than he’d planned on.

The conversation goes something like this:

_So, you’re from Moscow._

_Yes._

_Live there all your life?_

_Mostly, yes._

_When did you get into computer stuff?_

Shrug. _When I was twelve or thirteen, I… is “dabbled” the word? I have always been interested in computers. They contain so much power, especially now, the present day? One can do so much through internet… but I am boring you, I think._

That kind of thing. He ends up telling him about his family, about his older sister Irina, who’d been sent to a labor colony for a crime she hadn’t committed, about his younger sister who he’d not seen for many years, about growing up in the pre-collapse Soviet Union, in one of the seediest parts of Moscow.

And then they get into religion. “Me, I’m technically Episcopalian, but I’m kind of bad about practicing regularly,” Jones says sheepishly. And then he waits for Ivan to reciprocate.

“What is the word for person who does not believe in a greater power?” is his response.

“Atheist, I think. You’re not religious?” Jones asks, curious. “I guess I just assumed you were Russian Orthodox or something.”

Ivan shakes his head and finds himself confessing, “My parents were Orthodox, as well as many of others in my country, but I consider myself… atheist. I do not believe there is reason to be believing in something that cannot physically help me. It is better for me to live thinking I am alone than to have untrue hope that something will save me.” He hesitates a little. Then he goes on, not sure why he’s even talking about this, with a virtual stranger, “For this reason I also do not believe in life after death.”

The American laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah, man, you know, that’s kind of grim. Defeatist. I mean, it’s kind of nice to look forward to non-oblivion after we bite it, huh? You’ve got to believe in _something_.”

Ivan blinks. “Justice,” he hears himself say, thoughtlessly, “I believe in pursuing justice.” Then he recognizes what he’s said. Quickly, before Jones can say anything, he pulls a small grin across his face. “But you are right, this is too serious. We should not discuss this any more.”

The conversation is more tentative after that. Ivan can feel Jones revising his assessment of him. He feels less and less sure that this discussion had been a good idea.

Agent Héderváry saves him from the extended interrogation a few minutes later when she enters the common room and tells Ivan that she’s been meaning to talk to him about something.

“I wanted to grab you before you met the others,” she explains as they head to a more private location. Jones waves before retreating to his room.

They arrive at Héderváry’s office, on the ground floor. Surrounding the desk are several boxes, stacked sloppily. Various books and other small objects have been hastily shoved onto a shelf sitting slightly crooked atop a small cabinet.

“Sorry about the mess,” the agent apologizes, seating herself. “I had to move my stuff out of my old office in Berlin but I haven’t gotten to unpacking yet.” She gestures to the empty folding chair in front of Ivan. He sits, trying to suppress a feeling of apprehension. This scene is too much like the midnight summons earlier this week. That Héderváry appears to be in a good mood helps a little, as does the more informal setting of this meeting.

“Okay. This might take a while,” Héderváry says, folding her hands. “Do you know of the Moscow quasi-vigilante nicknamed ‘General Winter’?”

Ivan nods. He’ll have to look up the term “quasi-vigilante” later, but he recognizes the moniker.

“Well, you probably don’t know this, but you weren’t our first candidate for Codename Russia. Your government holds some sway with the Globe directorate, so obviously we were going to include at least one person from Russia. But our first choice was actually this General Winter character.”

The agent looks like she’s going to launch into a reassuring pitch about how he’ll be a “valuable asset” or something like that regardless of his circumstances, but Ivan has to interrupt, disbelief coloring his voice, “Pardon me, but if you had to cooperate with my government, I do not think they would be approving of this choice. The Moscow police and even the FSB _hate_ General Winter.” He becomes aware that he’s raised his voice a little, and pulls back on the volume. “Also how do you know that General Winter is only one person? The popular opinion is that it is a group of people doing these things, not one.”

Héderváry nods, acknowledging the validity of his doubts. “The Russian government had no actual say in the specific person we picked for this operation. And as for General Winter’s true nature, we _don’t_ know. But we’re fairly certain of our profile: An individual, native Russian, most likely male, probably a high-level cryokinetic Super. We think he also has some pretty first-rate computer skills, given the highly classified nature of the files he’s broken into remotely in order to leak those career-destroying documents,” she says, shaking her head absently, pulling a file out from the thick stack on the desk.

Ivan picks up on her phrasing. Despite himself, he’s curious enough to want to hear more. “You say ‘remotely’? So you do not think that General Winter can be from inside the government itself?” This is also a popular opinion in Moscow.

“We think it’s unlikely,” says Héderváry. She doesn’t elaborate. “Anyway, we were going to try to contact him, but things fell through. Actually,” she confesses, “we couldn’t find him. Bastard covered his tracks too well.”

She looks like she’s on the verge of making a decision. Ivan remains patiently quiet.

The agent’s head bobs slightly, and Ivan doubts that she even notices the tell. “Anyway, that convinced us that General Winter himself was a hacker. So we started trawling hacker communities. That was how we found you, eventually.”

Ivan realizes that he’s gone stiff. The agent notices it too and grins. “Don’t worry, nobody here gives a shit the stuff you’ve been involved in. As long as you haven’t pulled any really nasty attacks, Globe’s just so eager to hire computer people that we’ll take pretty much anyone.”

He supposes he should take that as a compliment. Or not. This whole talk is feeling increasingly surreal.

Remembering himself, he asks, “Why are you telling me these things? About General Winter?” he clarifies.

“Oh! Yeah, right. Business.” The agent unfolds her hands and places them flat on the desk in front of her, leaning forward. “We want your help to track him down. We’ve already got a hacker on this team, you, duh, but cryokinetic Supers are almost as rare as flyers and Globe still wants General Winter if we can get him.” Then she looks almost concerned as she asks, “You in?”

Ivan considers, slightly off-balance by the information he’s just had thrust at him. He assumes he’s going to have to search for a well-hidden online trail or something of the sort, since they’re hardly going to send him back to Moscow to stake out Red Square.

It would certainly be an interesting challenge, he thinks, and then nods.

Héderváry smiles with obvious relief. She then rifles through the folder and retrieves a sheet of slightly damaged paper.

“We’ve managed to dig up a grand total of one e-mail message that can conclusively be connected to General Winter. Our analysts are fairly sure it’s addressed to the man himself, but all we have is the raw text and two e-mail addresses,” she says, pre-empting Ivan’s next question. She passes the sheet and a thin personnel file across the desk.

Ivan picks it up nervously, not sure how he’s supposed to be playing detective with this minimal information.

“We’ve tracked the sender of the e-mail, at least. We’ve got her in the compound now, actually. You’ll meet her later. We haven’t quite gotten approval to officially put her on your team yet, but we think that she might be a useful source of information and she’ll be more cooperative if we involve her in something. We’re hoping she’ll be more comfortable talking to you, since you’re Russian…” Héderváry continues talking, but Ivan’s blocked her out. He’s looking at the last line of the message.

It reads, _Love, Natalya_

His heart sinks, clairvoyantly early, as his eyes slide toward the name on the file. The sender’s full name is Natalya Mikhailovna Arlovskaya.

It’s _his_ Natalya. His Natalya is _here_ , and he hadn’t even known.


	4. Chapter 4

The conference room is already half-full when Arthur arrives, exactly five minutes before the scheduled time. He scans the area warily. This whole operation still seems like the kind of bogus seen only in American action movies. Honestly, what dimwit decided that it was a good idea to put together a team of international Supers? Best-case scenario, it’ll be the slightly more mature version of life at the Academy.

He has to admit that it’s good to see Francis again, at least. Yesterday, after the Frenchman had arrived, they’d spent hours catching up, sharing stories about the varying degrees of crazy they’ve encountered in their respective professions.

Arthur couldn’t help himself. He’d also voiced his concerns about Codename Russia. “There is something _wrong_ about that man,” he’d told Francis. “My Sixth is telling me that he’s hiding something big. Have you met him yet? No? When you do, look at his eyes. They’re so blue they’re almost violet and I swear you can practically see things lurking behind them. He thinks I don’t notice but I’ve been watching him and when he’s not wearing that cute little smile he is _scheming_.”

Francis had answered that with a leer and said, “You do not need my permission to engage in your romantic pursuits, little Arthur.”

At which point Arthur had sputtered and shouted, “That is _not_ what I meant at all!”

Now, in the conference room, he finds his place, marked with a small Union Jack taped to the table. He quickly notes that the seats are ordered alphabetically by the common name of each operative’s nation.

Which seats him directly to the left of Jones, who might as well be a golden retriever. Fantastic.

The American in question is currently standing on the other side of the room, chatting animatedly with… is that Honda Kiku? Japanese mechanical prodigy, former Academy student, best friend of one Alfred F. Jones, founder and current CEO of Sunrise Industries, purveyor of the most cutting-edge technologies, et cetera. Globe knew what it was doing when it picked Codename Japan, at least, Arthur thinks.

He surveys the rest of the room. There’s someone he doesn’t recognize sitting in the seat to his left, a sullen-looking blond Swiss according to the flag in front of him, wearing a green camouflage uniform and somehow managing to look like he’s slouching while keeping a straight back. His arms are crossed and the sour look on his face is directed at the wall opposite.

Francis hasn’t arrived yet, but Arthur does recognize someone else, sitting a few seats down the curve of the table from him: Wang Yao, yet another Academy graduate, from one class above Arthur and Francis. Now Codename China, he guesses. He seems to be closely observing Jones’s and Honda’s conversation. 

Agent Héderváry is standing by the door, speaking with an albino man Arthur doesn’t recognize—another agent, probably Agent Beilschmidt, judging by his slightly rumpled uniform, which is identical to Héderváry’s. They’re speaking in hushed voices, wearing matching, slightly manic, grins.

Also already here is Codename Russia, sitting in his seat on the other side of Codename Switzerland. He looks lost in thought, fiddling with the ends of that ever-present mushroom-colored scarf.

Arthur feels reluctant to sit down, particularly since the only people currently doing so are the ones that appear to be friendlessly alone. But he’s feeling off-balance, simply standing here, so he sits. The chair is the rotating kind.

He swivels to his right, facing Jones’s empty chair, so he can watch the door more easily.

Another man enters, someone else Arthur doesn’t recognize. He’s wearing a business suit and glasses, blond hair slicked back and, by Arthur’s reckoning, is thoroughly uncomfortable. He watches him make relieved eye contact with Agent Beilschmidt, deliver a sharp nod, and take his place behind the German flag across the circular table from Arthur.

He watches this one. His posture marks him as military, which is interesting given Globe’s professed policy of noninterference with internal national agencies, military included. It might be that Arthur’s reading this wrong, and he’s simply another uptight German—Lord knows there are quite a lot of those—but natural talent and his years in the SIS have made him rather good at gauging this kind of thing, and his Sixth is telling him there’s something a little strange about this. Granted, there’s a lot strange about this initiative. But he’s resolved to be a little more optimistic. It’ll be an enlightening experience, at the very least.

He checks his watch. Two minutes until ten, the time he’d been told the meeting was scheduled for.

And there’s Francis at the door now. He looks like he’s spent the extra minutes on his appearance, which Arthur supposes shouldn’t surprise him. His shoulder-length blond hair _shines_ with product, and he’s wearing a florid violet shirt with some sort of loose white trousers. Arthur is irrationally embarrassed on his behalf.

His friend tosses him a wink and a blown kiss before finding his assigned seat and sitting down. The remaining people still standing start to move toward their chairs as well, though the two agents by the door continue to talk. Beilschmidt looks slightly anxious now, nervously running his fingers through his own spiky hair.

Jones raises his voice to continue his conversation with Honda across the table. Francis grins at Arthur and asks him how he’d slept last night, to which he replies with a brisk, “Fine.” He doesn’t ask how Francis had slept because he _knows_ how the conversation would go if he did. Francis takes the semi-dismissal in stride and turns to his left to start chatting Wang up. The shorter Chinese man looks quite confused. Arthur has to pity him. Francis may be his friend, but sometimes his personality can be slightly overwhelming.

Arthur spends the next minute or so staring at his wristwatch, watching the second hand go round, waiting for the minute hand to hit the twelve. He’s secretly glad that he has something to stare at, unlike Germany and Switzerland, who have nobody to talk to and are looking increasingly uncomfortable. Russia meanwhile has taken to staring blankly out the one window, opposite the door.

It’s another cloudy day at the base, essentially the same as the last couple of days. It makes it difficult to stay positive, but Arthur’s trying. He really is.

The table is still missing four people, judging by the flags. There are two additional empty seats, between Jones and the spot for what looks like might be a Codename Belarus, which are probably for Agents Héderváry and Beilschmidt, since there are no flags labeling them.

About thirty seconds before ten, a harried-looking young man runs in, brushing long brown hair away from his face. He murmurs something that Arthur doesn’t catch, and sits next to Wang at the Canada spot.

Jones’s face lights up. “Matt! Hey, Matt!” he says loudly, waving. The Canadian starts, then sees Alfred and smiles timidly. His face looks an awful lot like one particular American.

“Hi,” he whispers. He clears his throat, looking a tad bit red, and says again, marginally louder, “Hi.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Jones says, leaning over one of the empty chairs between him and the Canadian. The whole table is watching the exchange.

The Canadian—“Matt”—murmurs something that Arthur can’t hear. He checks his watch. One past. The two Globe agents show no sign of ending their conversation.

Arthur sighs quietly.

o

Ivan’s been thinking about the side project Agent Héderváry had given him. After showing him the e-mail from Natalya, the agent had told him that the day before they’d tried to contact “General Winter” through the receiving e-mail address, but their message had bounced.

“We’re afraid we scared him off. He might have noticed us sniffing around and decided to go dark for a while,” the agent had told Ivan. They hadn’t been able to trace the physical destination of the e-mail, nor intercept any further messages. Ivan had politely begged off after that, requesting that she send a file down to his room with the rest of the information.

The thing is, he doesn’t actually want Globe to catch General Winter. Anonymous, General Winter can serve his country unhindered, though the government might not see it that way. Unmasked, he’d end up a puppet of Globe, and after he’d outlived his use, the FSB could get their hands on him, easily. He’d probably end up in a corrective labor colony, or, more likely, quietly shot after extended… interrogation.

Ivan wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

But he’s not going to go to Agent Héderváry and tell her that if General Winter wanted to go public, he would. So he’ll have to play a very careful game: create false trails, lead Globe in circles, uncover misleading information, and avoid being caught. It helps that he’s been given so little “evidence” to work with.

The two agents standing just inside the door to the conference room finish the conversation they’ve been having for the last several minutes. The albino one goes out into the hallway, and returns in a few seconds, shaking his head in exasperation.

Ivan glances around the table, trying to recall the names of some of the unfamiliar faces around him. From the files he’d read two days ago, he knows that most of them are Supers.

Kirkland, the permanently irritated Codename England, is one of the most unusual ones. The former SIS agent not only has personal healing powers, but also has a very flexible extranormal ability that could be categorized as actual magic. Ivan hadn’t had enough time to read in more depth on this during his short hour in Deputy Director Wagner’s office.

Twenty-seven year-old Wang, Codename China, has the two most common abilities: strength and healing. In addition, he’s also something called a touch-psychic, described in his file as having the ability to determine the details of an inanimate object’s history by coming into skin contact with it. He’s the oldest member of the team and also apparently trained in acrobatics and the martial art of wushu.

The Frenchman, Francis Bonnefoy, is also possessed of enhanced healing, as well as a minor ability to effectively hypnotize or persuade. He’s a biochemist who, oddly enough, also has a wildly successful cooking show on television.

Codename Germany is Ludwig Zimmermann, former sergeant in the Luftwaffe. His abilities include enhanced strength, endurance, and healing. According to his file he had been court-martialed around a year ago but was cleared of the charges. He’d chosen to leave the military a month later. No further details were provided in the profile Ivan had read.

Basch Zwingli, the Swiss man, is a sharpshooter. His one Super power is impulse absorption, which is in effect energy shielding, but his main value to Globe lies in the superior marksmanship that he owes only to years of self-training.

Ivan already knows of Honda Kiku, of course. Sunrise Industries is the leading maker of computing technologies in the world, and he makes it a point to keep track of these things. Kiku and Ivan had been the only members of the team whose files had mentioned that they possessed no Super genes, but if Natalya _is_ to be added, as suggested by the Belarusian flag on the table, she’ll be the third.

The Canadian who’d entered a couple of minutes ago is Jones’s cousin Matthew, the youngest member of the team at not yet eighteen years of age.

Five minutes after Canada had arrived by Ivan’s estimate, two more men, a redhead and a brunette, burst into the room. The redhead chatters an apology for being late and pushes the other toward a chair behind one of the two Italian flags on the table. Ivan identifies them as the Vargas brothers, a couple of part-time Globe agents.

Codename Germany looks surprised at this entrance. “Feliciano?”

The redhead looks over. Ivan doesn’t even see him move. One second he’s sitting, the next he’s knocked over the other Italian and flung himself onto the taller blond man.

Super speed. Ivan’s impressed. Most Russian Supers are raw energy generators and manipulators of some kind, mainly telekinetics. He assumes that other nations or regions have different dominant powers; super strength and augmented healing are the only enhanced abilities that reportedly occur around the globe.

Zimmermann and the younger Vargas, who seem to know each other very well, are now talking in rapid-fire German. The rest of the room looks on in unmasked curiosity, though the albino agent just grins and whispers something to Héderváry.

That leaves one more flagged seat that is as yet unclaimed: the one behind the Belarusian banner. Ivan strongly suspects that this is Natalya’s seat, but if he knows her she’ll be vehemently resistant to attending this meeting, particularly considering the fact that she’s probably here at the Globe facility against her will.

Agent Héderváry speaks quietly into a device in her hand, shrugging at the other agent. “Maybe nobody’s told her…” Ivan catches her saying. The pale one snorts, apparently unconvinced. They move to their seats at the table but don’t sit down. It is now about ten-fifteen.

“Sorry about the wait, guys,” Héderváry says, addressing the group. Most of them are starting to look fidgety. “We’re just waiting on one more operative. She was a last-minute addition to the team.” Her fellow agent opens a briefcase and starts to spread some documents out in front of him.

The rest of the table sits in silence for a minute or so while Beilschmidt shuffles papers. Then there are some scuffling noises outside the door, which bangs open once again.

There, being nearly dragged between two Globe employees, is Natalya.

She’s grown so much over the last nine years, but Ivan would recognize her anywhere. He forces himself to remain seated.

“I can walk for myself,” Natalya says, her English heavily accented, once the door has shut behind her, shaking her captors off and proceeding to swear venomously at them in both Belarusian and Russian, which is unrecognized by everyone except for the albino, who snorts again, and Ivan, who has to suppress a smile.

o

Alfred’s opinion on this team initiative is mixed. On one hand, there’re Kirkland and Bonnefoy, who’ve never liked him very much. Kirkland, he knows, could try to make things difficult solely out of spite. On the other hand, Kiku, Gilbert, and Matt are here as well, and he knows they’ll be on his side if it comes down to a confrontation. He doesn’t know enough about Ivan to judge, but he doesn’t seem like a very team-oriented person. Alfred plans on working on that later. But Agent Héderváry—whose first name, he’s managed to learn, is Erzsébet—seems pretty chill. And as for the other ones he doesn’t know, he’d told Gilbert the truth. He’s great at making friends.

The door opens with a loud _thump_ and a young woman, blond, underfed, and very unhappy, is pulled into the room.

“I can walk for myself,” the newcomer says, shoving at the Globe guards on either side of her. They look like they’d rather be anywhere but here, and back off quickly. The girl—because seriously, she looks like she could be sixteen years old—lets forth what Alfred highly suspects is a stream of nasty words. The guards back off further and, after nodding to Agent Héderváry, leave the room.

The young woman slumps down in the chair behind the remaining flag, one Alfred can’t identify.

Agent Beilschmidt clears his throat and sits down. The rest of the table guiltily shifts their attention away from the young woman. “Thanks for joining us, Codename Belarus,” he says.

Alfred looks at her. She’s ignoring Gilbert and staring at Codename Russia, Ivan, with what might be shock, or possibly lust. Ivan is likewise staring back, but his expression is unreadable. He seems to be trying to convey something with just his eyes, but what that is, Alfred has no idea.

He glances around. The rest of the table hasn’t noticed this strange exchange, instead focused on Gilbert, who’s initiating introductions.

Alfred makes it a note to later figure out what’s going on with Belarus and Ivan, and tunes in to what Beilschmidt is saying.

He’s just finished introducing himself and Agent Héderváry as the team’s official handlers and is currently urging Codename Belarus to introduce herself. _She’s_ managed to tear her gaze away from the Russian, but now she just crosses her arms and glares at Gilbert. After a very tense fifteen seconds or so, it’s the German who gives up. “Well, this is Miss Natalya Arlovskaya, our Codename Belarus,” he says, looking deflated.

They move around the table quickly after that. Wang Yao he’s heard of from his Academy days, though they were never in the school at the same time. Ludwig Zimmermann’s self-introduction is brusque. Feliciano, the energetic Italian still sitting on Zimmermann’s lap, introduces himself and his brother, Lovino, who rolls his eyes and does one of the bitchiest looks Alfred’s ever seen. The Swiss man sitting between Ivan and Arthur is named Basch Zwingli, which pleases Alfred so much that he almost misses his own turn, so busy is he silently rolling that name around in his mouth.

“Alfred F. Jones,” he says, when Kirkland shoots him a condescending glance. “I specialize in Heroic things,” he adds, just to annoy the Englishman, who rolls his eyeballs toward the heavens right on cue. Alfred flashes his widest, most potent smile.

Across the table, Feliciano Vargas is practically grinding into a red-faced Zimmermann. The Italian probably doesn’t even think he’s doing anything unusual. Meanwhile, his brother has turned as red as a tomato and Francis, seated next to them, has a frankly creepy grin on his face as he stares blatantly.

Matt’s trying to squirm under the table, probably to get away from the Belarusian girl, who looks like she might spontaneously sprout knives. Zwingli is looking around the table somewhat wildly, hands clenching and unclenching rapidly. Kiku looks serene, as always.

Héderváry and Beilschmidt look like they’ve just realized that they’ve possibly bitten off more than they can chew.


	5. Chapter 5

According to the papers everyone’s looking at now, Terram Ustam is the apparently new terrorist organization believed to be responsible for close to twenty attacks in major cities around the world now. Their targets chosen so far appear to follow no particular pattern, but at each site the terrorists had left several dead from bomb blasts, fatality numbers ranging from five to sixty-two. And they’d also left messages, usually stenciled onto a wall or the ground, in the respective languages of the country of each attack.

The text of each of these: _We are the cleansing fire. We are the eternal flame. We shall never be destroyed, nor shall we be deterred. The human race as we know it will be by our hand destroyed before the last year of this century. We are Terram Ustam and we shall prevail._

It would be funny, almost something out of a comic book, if Alfred hadn’t already known how serious the situation is.

The agents outline the little information Globe has gained regarding this Terram Ustam, whose name apparently means “scorched earth” in Latin, as Feliciano Vargas is eager to add. What they do know is pretty much only what Terram Ustam has chosen to release: they are composed of mainly Super supremacists; they are highly organized and international; they are led by someone known as Sol, a somewhat well-known Super villain originating from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Alfred’s heard of him, vaguely. His signature power is incendiary, which probably lends itself to burnings and bombings. But this particular criminal has never been previously involved in anything as showy as this Terram Ustam outfit appears to be. To be fair, no law enforcement agency has ever gotten a clear picture, or even a good description, of his face. So it’s somewhat difficult to keep track of his activities. 

In Alfred’s opinion, this seems to indicate that this Terram Ustam has been active and planning this end-of-the-world thing for a long time. Several of the other recruits nod their heads when he voices this.

“We’ve been thinking the same thing,” Gilbert says.

“But we haven’t found any evidence to support this yet,” Héderváry adds.

Which is where the team comes in.

“Your mission is, in crudest terms, search and destroy,” Héderváry explains. “We need information about the organization: how big they are, how they are organized, what kinds of extraordinary abilities they have, where their bases are, how they intend to ultimately carry out their threat. Russia and Japan, you’ll be on the digital search. Once you’ve identified a Terram Ustam base of operations, most of the rest of you will be acting as infiltration and extraction teams. You will engage with the enemy, retrieve as much computer tech as possible, and neutralize and capture as many of the enemy as possible.”

She’s looking a little too gleeful when she says this. Gilbert smacks her on the back of her head.

“ _Terminate_ as _few_ as possible,” she adds with a pout.

“Anyway, none of that happens until we get an actual target. And of course your objectives will probably be modified once we get some actual information,” says Beilschmidt.

Alfred sneaks a glance at Ivan. He looks even paler than usual. Kiku, on the other hand, looks as serene as always.

o

Honda Kiku is not an easy person to work with, Ivan has discovered. Honda’s a tech guy, a hardware guy. He’s an actual genius with machines, but though he builds the best computers in the world, he isn’t a hacker.

Ivan, on the other hand, has never had access to the fanciest equipment, consequence of growing up where he did. This also means that he’s also never felt too strictly bound by the law. His _profession_ is breaking into high-security systems. 

What this all means is that Ivan tends to improvise, and Honda doesn’t like it one bit.

The first time Ivan tries to build a shortcut into one of Honda’s machines, the Japanese man throws the calmest fit Ivan’s ever seen. He hadn’t known that it was possible to shout in a perfectly conversational tone of voice. Honda pulls it off.

Unhelpful is the fact that Ivan has a good deal of respect for Honda Kiku and his company, while Honda seems to distrust him solely for being Russian. It’s not quite hate or suspicion to the degree that he’s felt from Arthur Kirkland—what _his_ problem is, Ivan doesn’t know—but it does put a damper on their relationship, initially.

Despite this, somehow, when they get to work, they’re a fairly effective team. They start with online message boards, using the dates of the known Terram Ustam attacks and various keywords, and move on to intercepting communication and breaking into the specific computers whose users they’ve identified as suspect. Within the first day, they’re able to hand Globe a list of probable members of Terram Ustam, the first of many similar lists, over the next few days.

Ivan can’t identify what it is that helps them develop a more two-sided trust, but it might have something to do with sharing that feeling of guilty glee one generally gets when given permission to do something illegal. Even the Japanese feel it, apparently.

All this is not to say that that job is easy. Because, to be honest, these Terram Ustam people are _good_. Their internal systems are locked up tight. The online communications he and Honda intercept all use very careful, limited language, which gives little away in the way of specifics. And, because Terram Ustam is international, there’s the added difficulty of translation.

But there’s nothing like the threat of utter annihilation to make a person commit to his work. Plus, this is all a new experience for Ivan, and he has to admit that he hasn’t had this kind of fun, ever.

 

“How did Globe get you to come here anyway?” Natalya moans in Russian, flopping back onto her bed. Ivan’s been coming to her room every night after most of the other recruits, exhausted from training, have gone to sleep. She’s now in a room at the end of the left-hand hall, next to the room the Italians share.

They couldn’t help it: Even though the chance that their every conversation is being recorded is near on a hundred percent, they won’t pretend to be strangers twenty-four seven. To hell with it if Globe learns they’d known each other already. It’s hardly a crime.

“I know you _hate_ this kind of thing,” Natalya adds snidely. “Did they blackmail you?”

Ivan avoids her gaze and swallows air.

“They did, didn’t they?”

Ivan sits down next to her and looks at the empty wall. “It could have been worse. They could have handed me over to the FSB. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“Of course not, but Jesus, Ivan, how’d you get so careless? You— _we’re_ in danger just being here.” She sits back up and crosses her arms.

He reminds himself to breathe deeply. “They weren’t even looking for me. They got lucky going through some online forum. How’d _you_ get so careless, communicating with a known criminal?” he shoots back.

“Don’t ask me. I use _your_ encryption protocols for secure messages,” she snaps, her expression venomous.

This is how their conversations always go. It begins with cautious small talk and escalates quickly to vitriolic anger on both sides. Rarely do they speak of anything meaningful. Often Ivan fears that their relationship is too based in violence, that they support each other more out of a mutual fear than a mutual love. Maybe he’s being melodramatic, and maybe he’s not.

Occasionally he wistfully recalls when things had been different. But that was a different time. They’d been younger, and they hadn’t yet been torn apart.

o

Alfred’s been at Globe for almost a _week_ and life is not looking too exciting. First of all, he’s _bored_. There’s not much to do—nothing very fun, at least— while Kiku and Ivan work on tracking down Terram Ustam. And secondly, his worries about the group having problems have proven to be only too realistic.

There’s a reason that people use the phrase “like three Supers in a locked room” to describe both absolute chaos and bitter enmity. There’s a reason that no country has a special Supers-only task force for especially tough situations—though it sounds like it would be a great idea; why at most a single Super will be employed by an agency like, for example, the US Department of Homeland Security.

Globe expects the team to train together, bond, hang out together. And while Alfred has complete faith in his own ability to get on peoples’ good sides, he also knows that this is absolutely not the best combination of people to make a team of. Even at the Academy, the students, most of whom were Supers, tended to work against each other more than with. This International Initiative is just the scaled-up version.

Take this morning, for example.

The recruits have been given a fairly strict schedule to adhere to in order to prepare themselves for the eventual first raid on Terram Ustam. This particular disaster had occurred during one of the unscheduled periods of the day, right after breakfast.

They’d all been encouraged to use the equipment in the main training gym, to stay in shape and interact with each other at the same time. Alfred, Yao, Ludwig, and Gilbert had arrived in the gym. The two Germans had gone to do their usual hour-long workout, which consisted of weight lifting, various core-strengthening exercises, and a jog outside the compound. Alfred isn’t sure how the two of them know each other, actually. Gilbert’s never mentioned a Ludwig Zimmermann to him before, but they seem pretty close.

Yao had gone to do some stretching. The little guy is easily the most flexible person Alfred’s ever seen. He’d moved on to a couple of hanging rings a few minutes later and was doing some crazy contortions when Arthur walked in, looking like he’d swallowed something sour, as usual.

Alfred himself had started a slow jog on a treadmill by the door. The Englishman had walked by and launched a sullen little spark from his fingertips at Alfred’s head, purely out of spite.

He’d ducked, of course. The spark had traveled past his head instead and headed for Yao, dangling from the ceiling, pinging on his hand.

 _He’d_ been surprised, not hurt. Unfortunately, he also had reflexively opened his fingers and as a result twisted the other arm out of its socket at the sudden transfer of weight.

A great deal of angry Chinese shouting later, Wang Yao’s arm had been realigned and his augmented healing hard at work on a slightly torn muscle.

Needless to say, this was not one of the best mornings in the compound. But Alfred suspects that it will not be the worst.

At this point, he thinks, it they just need to get some action. At least they’ll be targeting someone else, rather than each other.

It’s not all boredom and childish antics, though. Agent Héderváry has set up—actually, “instituted” is a better way to put it—a schedule for those team members who’ll most likely be physically engaging the terrorists to practice close combat with each other. It sounds like a horrible idea, with this group in particular, but actually turns out to be a really fantastic way for people to let off steam in an authorized manner.

The first official training sessions are used for observation. Globe scientists, geneticists and human biologists specializing in Supers, watch Alfred and Ludwig spar on the first day, and though it makes Alfred feel slightly like a zoo animal, it’s also guiltily gratifying to hear words like “exceptional” come out of the mouths of professionals.

Some of the Supers on the team have never been fully evaluated before. Alfred had gone through the whole song and dance when he’d been hired by Homeland Security, but although most countries nowadays require “genetically extranormal individuals” to register, full classification and examination is not obligatory.

The system of Super classification is extremely convoluted. Not only are there various types of what Alfred likes to think of as superpowers, there are also different degrees. Some Supers have a variety of abilities that work together; others possess multiple powers that have no connection whatsoever.

Alfred, for example, is close to the top of the strength charts (Ludwig is close behind him, and Yao, while he is also considered an enhanced-strength Super, falls somewhere a bit below).

But Alfred also has a couple of other special abilities. His hearing, while superior to any non-Super, is middle-to-low in degree compared to other people with enhanced senses. And his enhanced healing only applies to certain areas of his body. This can be compared to any of several of his team members: Arthur can heal himself, but requires mental concentration to do so. Francis, Ludwig, and Yao have full-body healing, though Yao’s is much faster than the other two’s. Even Agent Héderváry possesses a variant of enhanced healing, which only applies to damage like cuts and bruises but doesn’t help with internal organs.

Basch, the little Swiss man, actually has the best protection, but he’s in a different category altogether.

Of course, it won’t matter how great everyone is if they don’t learn about each other’s strength and weaknesses, which is how Héderváry positions the combat practices. And Alfred has to agree. Not that he doesn’t also enjoy pummeling Kirkland every once in a while.

Even the noncombatants—Ivan and Kiku—are being taught how to use a gun. Alfred watches them occasionally, and he has to laugh: Kiku may be the shortest guy on the team, but after only a few days of practice, he can squeeze off nine out of ten bullets into the heart of a life-sized mannequin. Ivan, on the other hand, towers over him, but the big guy wouldn’t hurt a fly.

o

If he concentrates, Arthur can sense the emotional waves rolling off of his supposed teammates. And he has to say, he’s been feeling much the same way as everyone else is. The general sentiment has been shifting from boredness to resentment. Except for perhaps Japan and Russia. Honestly, given what he’s been feeling from them, he doesn’t think either Honda or Braginsky is capable of anger. Of course, they’re also working on an actual project right now, unlike the rest of them.

Every day, Beilschmidt and Héderváry call the team together and ask for a report from the hacking team. And while it’s encouraging to hear that they are making a lot of progress on the information front, it also feels like a taunt to everyone else.

_We’ve discovered a list of Terram Ustam members in Costa Rica. We’ve found the contact information of some Terram Ustam-affiliated Supers in former Soviet states. We’ve uncovered evidence that Terram Ustam has been active for at least two decades. We’ve found six sources that we think will let us locate some Terram Ustam bases, if there are any._

_We’re being useful and you aren’t._

Well, the last, not literally. Arthur doesn’t think either the Russian or Japanese man would intentionally say something to make any of the others feel injured. They’re just too polite.

That’s not to say that he’s let up on his suspicions regarding Braginsky. Polite-shy-and-slightly-stupid is one of the easiest characters to play, and the Russian is practically the textbook version of this. Arthur has been—had been—in the spy business for long enough to know. For all he knows, Ivan Braginsky could be in that same business. Arthur has no illusions about this subject; he knows from firsthand experience that espionage is not limited to times of war or even political tension. That Braginsky is a hacker makes him look twice as suspect. On the other hand, Arthur is pretty sure that if Russian intelligence had been able to get an agent into this operation, they wouldn’t have used someone known to Globe as a hacker.

Of course, Codename Russia isn’t the only one Arthur’s leery of. He’s taken to spending the majority of his spare time closely observing his supposed team members.

The relationship between Agent Beilschmidt and Codename Germany, for one, has definitely got a strange air about it. Zimmermann is a bit of a loner, though he spends a lot of time with Codename Veneziano, the younger of the Italians. He’s the utterly stereotypical German, extremely organized and quite serious. Arthur doesn’t think he’s seen him smile more than a handful of times.

Beilschmidt, on the other hand, is overwhelmingly social, quite loud, and more than a little bit obnoxious. He’s also completely disorganized, which makes his assignment as handler of the International Initiative 1999 team—II99 for short—slightly perplexing. Although, to be fair, Agent Héderváry can be nearly as scattered.

Despite the obvious dissimilarities between the two German men, Beilschmidt is practically the only other person—besides Feliciano Vargas—with whom Zimmermann has conversations on a semi-regular basis. And these aren’t social chats. Arthur doesn’t know what it is, but twice at least he’s been near enough to sense worry and tension just _dripping_ off of both men.

To make the situation more bizarre, during all other times than their occasional hushed discussions, Beilschmidt and Zimmermann seem to be trying their best to ignore each other and, where that isn’t possible, to pretend that they don’t know each other. Arthur, personally, thinks that they’re doing a pretty bad job of it, but he can’t tell if anyone else has noticed.

Additionally, Matthew Williams, Alfred Jones’s cousin, sets Arthur on edge. He knows that the poor lad probably wishes he were back at the Academy, but he just keeps on disappearing. Literally, since he’s capable of personal invisibility and telepathic misdirection, which appears to wholly suit his personality, and has the additional consequence of making Arthur jumpy as a hare.

 

He’s taken to playing chess with Francis in the common room, which, they’ve discovered, is not only a game they both moderately enjoy, but also, more importantly, is something they’re more or less evenly matched at.

They’ve just finished what’s become the daily afternoon game, Arthur having tipped his king over in defeat and now trying to escape Francis, who is trying to give him a kiss as a consolation prize. Really. That man thinks that kissing is the solution to everything.

Luckily, this is when the intercom on the wall buzzes, distracting them both. They crash into a table and tumble into a small tangled heap. Arthur thinks he’s twisted his ankle.

A voice—Agent Héderváry, Arthur thinks—blares out from the speaker. “All II99 team members please report to Conference Room A.“ She sounds more excited than usual. The intercom clicks off.

Arthur and Francis look at each other. “ _Another_ meeting?” They’ve already attended the obligatory morning meeting.

They retrieve their own limbs and walk upstairs, Arthur hobbling slightly and feeling faintly ridiculous.

o

After four days working together, Honda Kiku and Ivan strike gold.

Agents Héderváry and Beilschmidt call another meeting. It seems like the only thing they do, but Ivan keeps that thought to himself.

Once everyone’s there, the handlers pass out a paper copy of the new findings to each member of the team.

What the sheet contains: The address and alleged blueprints of a Terram Ustam base in Austria. The location they had found by tracing suspect communications in this region of Europe. The blueprints had been registered as a legitimate building project for a small security firm.

The important thing is not so much that they’ve got one base pinpointed now, but the fact that this one base will inevitably lead to the discovery of others. The most valuable information will be on-site. Ivan’s done a lot of probing around over the last few days, and though he thinks he could possibly find a way into the terrorist organization’s more secure systems without being on location, having direct access to the computers at the base will give away less information about himself and Globe, as well as automatically get them past many of the security precautions in place.

This also means that Ivan will now—hopefully—be freer to do with his time on base what he wants.

Now, though, it looks like it’ll all be easier from here. Provided, of course, that the team can match the Super personnel who will surely be at the Terram Ustam facility.

o

Alfred can’t keep the grin off of his face when he sees what’s in the papers Agent Héderváry has just dropped in front of him. He stands up and pumps a fist, whooping, and runs over to hug Ivan and Kiku, three and four chairs away from his own seat. They both respond stiffly to the attempted embraces. Some people just aren’t hug people.

He returns to his seat to finish reading. Everyone else looks like they share his feelings, even though they might not be so energetic about it. Even Arthur looks more amused than irritated about Alfred’s enthusiasm.

 

The base bursts to life, and Alfred can finally appreciate the full effect of Globe as an operational international security agency.

They waste no time. As soon as the Japan-Russia team gives Globe the information they need, each member of the team is finally given tasks to prepare for their first mission, which Gilbert wants to mount as soon as possible. They’re joined by many of the people who usually work for Globe-GER, who are this year more idle than usual because the people at Central have taken over some of the regional functions here in Germany.

Suddenly Alfred—well, the whole team, really—has plenty to do.

The projected date of their assault on the Terram Ustam base is in two weeks, at the start of February. Between then and now, there won’t be a dull moment.

Alfred hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the pre-written chapters, so from here on the updates will be less frequent. However, as I mentioned somewhere previously, I do know exactly where the story is going and have various bits and pieces of the remainder already written.


	6. Chapter 6

When Alfred had started at the World Academy W, he was one of six Americans in his year. Their whole class had consisted of about a hundred students, picked up from all around the world, from every background conceivable, and consequently, most of them had to make new friends when they arrived.

Alfred, though of course a very social creature, is also picky when it comes to friends. He’d gotten very, very lucky at the Academy, because this is where he met Honda Kiku.

Back then, Kiku never could have guessed that he’d soon be where he is now, head of the world’s greatest tech company. He’d hardly talk, rarely leave his room when not in class, and most importantly, he’d eat lunch alone. Alfred himself had been having trouble making friends at the start of the term, being the youngest student in their year, and he’d finally decided to sit down next to the small, lonely Japanese teen one day in the cafeteria. It had been the start of an unlikely but beautiful friendship, one that Alfred’s never been able to really match.

Sure, he has people like Gilbert, people he can exchange favors with or just chill with. He has Matt, who is the best cousin a guy could have, even if he likes his pancakes with just a little too much maple syrup. But even if Alfred and Matt are closer than most cousins, they just aren’t the sorts of people who’d hang out if they weren’t related.

But Kiku and Alfred were the _best_. Between Alfred mixing up his new friend’s first and last names for a month, and Kiku teaching him how to use chopsticks, and Alfred introducing him to science fiction and pranking and eating pizza crust-to-tip, they’d made something special out of their friendship.

Which is why Alfred’s been feeling majorly guilty about being so bad at keeping in touch. Or, he won’t even skirt around the truth: he’s been _terrible_ at keeping in touch. Before this Globe initiative, the last time they’d even communicated had been nearly a year ago. The last time they’d spoken via telephone had been _two_.

It’s almost difficult, now, to be near Kiku every day. Alfred doesn’t know if it makes it worse or better that Kiku’s been mostly working with Ivan Braginsky, separate from the rest of the team.

He’s been trying really hard to be a good friend. _Really_. But when they’d first seen each other in the room during that first full-team meeting, Alfred just hadn’t known what to talk about. They’d made small talk, and yeah, they’d caught up on each other’s lives and shared stories, but he feels like they’ve gone in different directions with their lives since graduation, not yet three years ago. Still, Alfred’s been trying to spend time with Kiku when they have free time.

 _It is so often pure chance that determines what happens to us_ , Alfred thinks ruefully as he stands outside Kiku’s door, right next to his own. He can hear voices other than Kiku’s inside the room: Ludwig Zimmermann’s and Feliciano Vargas’s. Rather than eavesdrop, he knocks.

The Italian opens the door wide and with a huge smile. “Alfred! Hi! Come in!” It doesn’t sound so much an invitation as a mindless exclamation, and Alfred hesitates.

Sitting on the floor behind Feliciano are Ludwig and Kiku, who are peering around the Italian’s legs to see Alfred.

Abruptly, Alfred can’t remember what he thought he was going to talk about with Kiku, anyway. He comes in, makes meaningless chatter for a few minutes—mostly with Feliciano—and excuses himself.

He needs to be better at the whole friend thing. Or maybe Kiku does. Suddenly he just feels tired, down to his bones. He’ll try again, later.

o

Arthur feels Francis coming down the hallway before he sees him. He’s alone, which is good. The second the Frenchman is close enough, he reaches out an arm, snags his friend’s sleeve, and pulls him into his room, shushing him before he can say anything.

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly.

Francis plops down on Arthur’s bed and lies back, making himself comfortable. “Oh?” he asks, with an eyebrow-wiggle. And then a full-body wiggle. Arthur silently scolds himself for the stir down below that Francis can still provoke.

“This is serious,” he says. “I’m trying to do some detective work. I need you to get the files on a couple of our teammates. Paper, not electronic. You’ll just have to get into one of the handlers’ offices and print a few sheets out. I’ll write up a list of what I need—“

“Arrr-thur,” his friend interrupts, still squirming, apparently trying to leave a Francis-shaped dent in the bed.

“Hm?”

“ _You_ are the spy, I am not,” Francis points out.

This is true. And Francis, most often, is not exactly subtle. But he can get people to give him things, and that’s all that matters. Also, he is much more personable than Arthur, which is something he is not afraid to admit.

Francis at last acquiesces. But of course, there are strings attached. “Okay, I will do this for you. And what are you going to do for me?” he asks, grabbing a handful of Arthur’s shirt and yanking it toward him. He lands on top of the taller man. Their faces are far too close for Arthur’s liking.

“Not this again,” he protests, pushing his hands between them and prying the cloth of his shirt away from the grasp of the now-pouting Frenchman. He rolls to the side, Francis halfheartedly trying to pull him back and missing, smacking him in the face. “Agh!”

“I am sorry,” Francis says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But now, Arthur, we did have some good times together!” His accent has thickened slightly and Arthur suspects that it’s on purpose. 

He groans and stares at the pale ceiling. “Years ago, Francis. That was years ago. And we didn’t even like each other.”

“So it should be even better now that we’re friends! I will tell you a secret: I think you are attractive,” declares Francis, as blunt as he gets, reaching out a long hand and pulling Arthur’s chin so that they face each other. 

“Not a secret, my friend,” Arthur returns, smiling despite himself.

He and Francis _had_ had some good times, he had to admit. But that had been back in their Academy days. They’d been less mature—at least Arthur had been; he doesn’t know if Francis will ever grow up—and more impulsive. Also, angrier. But there _had_ been physical attraction, at least, at that stage. That much had been very clear. And they are friends now. Their friendship had begun where the sex had ended. To attempt a relationship now would be very different, but it couldn’t hurt…

He sees Francis gazing at him, expectant.

“Okay, we’ll give it a go.”

 

It takes Francis less than twenty-four hours to deliver. _Arthur_ is ambushed on the way to his room, this time, by a buck-naked Frenchman who is definitely in the wrong room.

“Not now,” Arthur complains, pushing Francis away, who is trying to molest him whilst he’s reading the ill-gotten papers in his hands. “You make me feel like a call girl, you know. Selling my body for favors.”

Francis pulls back. “Is that how you feel?”

Arthur immediately regrets his words. If they’re going to try to renew their old relationship, they should both feel completely comfortable with each other. “No. Read this stuff with me, and then we’ll do the other thing.”

“It’s called sex, little Arthur.”

 

_Full name: Ivan Zimich Braginsky_

_Date of birth: 30 December 1974_

_City of birth: Moscow_

_Parents: Zima Maximovich Braginsky; mother’s name unknown._

_Citizenship: Russian Federation_

_Current residence: Moscow_

_Extranormal abilities: None_

_Military record: None_

_Criminal record: None_

_Most current occupation: Computer security, freelance_

_Additional biographical details:_  
Jan. 1990: Father died.  
Mar. 1990: Ivan and sisters Irina and Daria separated.  
Jan. 1994: Took first contract in current profession with (now-defunct) company Petrov Design.  
Full biography in file Personnel B–VI __

_GLILE position: Member of International Initiative 1999 (II99)_

_GLILE operative type: Reserve agent, contract termination exclusively on own terms_

_GLILE employment record:_  
Dec. 1998: Recruited by Globe-RUS, assigned to II99. 

 

“Is that _it?_ ” According to his Globe file, Braginsky has led a singularly uninteresting life. “ _Mother’s name unknown_. That’s probably the most interesting detail here,” Arthur says, frustrated. He throws the stack of papers down. “I need more information. What’s Personnel B-VI?”

“Everything else was too classified. Everyone’s file is like that,” Francis says from the bed, rolling about with the sheets like a kitten. “The ‘B’ is the first initial of his last name and the ‘VI’ is the version of the file for fourth-level security clearance.”

Arthur looks at him sharply. “They don’t even let Héderváry see our full files?”

“Yes, but it was Agent Beilschmidt. This is all of the things I got with his ID. He is third-level, I think.”

“Fine. _Fine_. That’s still… odd. We’ll have to look into that. What about this one?” Arthur takes the stack of papers topped with the sheet labeled _Beilschmidt, L._ “I thought I asked for… oh. _Oh_.”

 

_Full name: Ludwig Beilschmidt_

_Alias: Ludwig Zimmermann_

_Date of birth: 3 October 1975_

_City of birth: West Berlin_

_Parents: Joseph Beilschmidt; Nadja Beilschmidt, née Neumann_

_Citizenship: Federal Republic of Germany_

_Current residence: Potsdam_

_Extranormal abilities: Augmented endurance, augmented healing (full-body), augmented strength_

_Military record:_  
Feb. 1993: Enlisted in German Air Force.  
Apr. 1998: Tried and found guilty of insubordination, stripped of rank and discharged.  
Jun. 1998: Pardoned, commanding officer found guilty of issuing illegal orders.  
Final rank: Hauptfeldwebel 

_Criminal record: See_ Military record __

_Most current occupation: German Air Force_

_Additional biographical details:_  
Jan. 1977: Parents died, Ludwig and brother Gilbert transferred to custody of grandfather Karl Beilschmidt.  
Feb. 1983: KB died.  
Sep. 1984: Sent to orphanage.  
Full biography in file Personnel B–VI __

_GLILE position: Member of International Initiative 1999 (II99)_

_GLILE operative type: Reserve agent, conditional_

_GLILE employment record:_  
Jul. 1998: Recruited by Globe Central.  
Dec. 1998: Assigned to II99. 

_See also file(s):_ Gilbert Beilschmidt __

o

Ivan finds himself in the large gymnasium, a place he hasn’t spent a lot of time in but probably should. He’s let off the hook by Héderváry, at least, since his function on the team isn’t supposed to involve that much physical activity, but he should be trying to stay in shape, for himself. That’s not why he’s here today, though.

He scans the floor, looking for a certain American Super. And there he is. 

“Hey, man!” Jones exclaims, vaulting over the exercise equipment separating him and Ivan. Very briefly Ivan considers that this might not be a good idea, but then he reminds himself that nothing ever came of perpetual hesitation. And Jones tends to mean well, he thinks. He’ll be more than willing to help Ivan with what he asks.

“I don’t see you in here much,” the American continues, grin still plastered across his face. Far across the room, Agent Héderváry and Basch Zwingli are target shooting. Even from this distance, Ivan can tell that their accuracy is near perfect.

“I was looking for you, and you are in here often,” Ivan explains.

Jones’s eyes widen. He’s clearly pleased. “Okay! Yeah, you’re right,” he says, scratching his head. “What didja want to talk about?”

The “team” is composed of mainly people who already know at least one of the others. The Italian brothers are part of Globe’s version of a reserve force and already are acquainted with Agents Beilschmidt and Héderváry. In addition, Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig Zimmermann are apparently long-lost childhood friends. Wang, Bonnefoy, Jones, Kirkland, and Honda are all graduates of the same school, run by Globe itself, and Williams, who is Jones’s cousin anyway, is supposed to be currently attending the same academy. That leaves Ivan, Natalya, and Basch Zwingli as the only members of the team without any previous connections to others. That is, as far as Ivan knows.

Of course, he and Natalya _do_ know each other already. But Globe isn’t supposed to know that. Considering the reason Natalya’s here at all, it won’t do to throw Ivan under suspicion as well. Him going to her room at night can be passed off in any manner of ways, and they haven’t talked about anything too sensitive there, he thinks. They’ve been “getting to know each other” in public, too. Everything should be okay on that front.

Of the rest of the team, Alfred has, so far, been the friendliest toward Ivan. It’s understandable that the others might gravitate toward the more familiar of their teammates, but it makes Ivan’s life a little more awkward. So now, he comes to Jones, who actually is probably one of the most-suited to fulfill Ivan’s request anyway.

He pulls him outside into a hallway, gently, not sure how to broach the subject. Luckily, for once, the American seems to read the atmosphere, and he asks, more earnestly, “What do you need?”

Get straight to it, Ivan tells himself. “I want you to teach me how to fight.”

His request takes Jones off guard. “Oh! Well, yeah, sure, what do you mean?”

“Hand-to-hand,” Ivan clarifies. He hopes that’s the correct term. “I know I will not probably be getting into fights when we go to the Terram Ustam base, but I want to be prepared.” In the past, he’d gotten past all kinds of problems by improvising, but he knows that eventually, his luck or whatever it is that keeps him going will run out.

Jones understands him perfectly. “I get it. Sometimes a gun’s no substitute for a good ol’ karate chop or right hook.”

They move down the hallway. “I hope I did not interrupt you,” Ivan says, realizing that Jones must have a usual routine.

“No problem.”

They aren’t walking anywhere in particular. The halls here are all identical, anyway. Ivan is spared from deciding what to say next when Jones asks, “So, uh, how is this going to work? Where do you want to start?”

Good question. “The basics, first?” he asks. “When are you going to be available?”

They sketch up a quick schedule, Ivan hoping that he won’t be taking too much of Jones’s time, Jones saying it’s “no big deal, man.” He actually seems pretty excited about the whole idea. They part when they pass the mess hall, Alfred heading inside and Ivan returning to his room to supervise the setup of the computer they’ve finally authorized him to keep.

“Thank you, Jones.”

“Please, call me Alfred.”

o

It’s only one week before the day of the first raid, which will be next Friday, and Arthur is really just minding his business reading Conan Doyle in a comfy chair in the common room when Francis and the Vargases walk in, around seven or eight at night, looking shady.

Francis spots Arthur. “Oh, good, you are here already.”

“What,” Arthur mutters. Lovino Vargas hardly ever smiles, and the fact that he’s doing it now is making Arthur feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Francis produces a bottle of wine from behind his back. “Voilà, le vin!”

Arthur sits up abruptly. “Put that away,” he hisses, motioning frantically.

“ _Wine_ , Arthur. It is wine,” Francis somehow has the need to explain. The brothers have another bottle with them.

“I know it’s wine, idiot! Don’t you know where we are? Put it away before somebody sees…” he trails off as Jones and his cousin come down the corridor. Carrying a case of beer each. Arthur spins back to Francis. “ _You_ —”

The Frenchman grins and ruffles his hair. “It is a party!”

“For _what?_ ”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“You’re throwing a party because you just felt like it? With _alcohol?_ ” He can’t believe he’s just said that. What are they, back in school again? But they shouldn’t be drinking. They’re supposed to be saving the world, for God’s sake.

Not right now, apparently. Francis goes running down each of the three hallways, knocking on doors. Within five minutes, everyone is out in the common room. Codenames Germany and Switzerland look vaguely disapproving, but they don’t protest, opting to stand against the wall, arms crossed.

Arthur still doesn’t know what to do with the information he’s just gotten on “Zimmermann”. A couple of drinks could loosen him up, he realizes. If this is going to be a party, he might as well use the opportunity to find out more about him and the Russian.

The Russian in question has just reappeared with a bottle of vodka after disappearing briefly back to his room. Arthur has no idea where all the drinks are coming from, seriously. As far as he knows, nobody’s even been off the base since they arrived.

Someone pulls some plastic cups out of nowhere. Arthur lets Francis pour him something; he isn’t paying attention to what it is.

Just as he is settling back to observe the group, he hears Jones raise his voice and say, “Uh, guys, there’s somebody coming.”

The room goes quiet. A moment later, everyone can hear the footsteps. A few people start edging toward their rooms.

Agent Beilschmidt appears in the doorway. Héderváry is close behind him. The German agent’s mouth gapes. “Oh dear.” He looks back at his colleague, who shrugs.

Arthur wonders if they’ll all be grounded. 

Finally, Beilschmidt speaks. “Is there beer.” His eyes dart around furtively.

Jones flings his hands above his head with a yell. “Yeah! Beer here!”

o

There are lots of interesting things to be heard at a party, particularly if you’re gifted with enhanced hearing.

For example, there is Ludwig Zimmermann whispering angrily with Gilbert in a corner. Alfred doesn’t know German, but he does hear some interesting words, and one in particular that sounds an awful lot like “alcoholic”, this while the blond is jabbing a finger at Gilbert’s chest.

Also: Feliciano loudly chattering away to Francis about the relative merits of fettuccine, tagliatelle, and bavette.

Also: Wang Yao muttering to himself about “young people these days” while eyeing the red Solo cup in his hand suspiciously.

Also: Matt in a corner, trying to offer Codename Belarus, Natalya, a beer. Alfred watches them out of the corner of his eye. Technically, Matt’s not supposed to be drinking, but then again, Alfred’s twenty-first birthday isn’t for a few months either. His seventeen year-old cousin’ll be legally able to drink not even a year after Alfred will. Canada is weird like that, he thinks.

And of course, Alfred is the first to notice when Arthur and Ivan start …arguing. It’s mostly Kirkland. He’s got Ivan backed against a wall.

“Ha! You’d like that!” This is Arthur.

“Sorry?” Ivan.

“You think you can just, just, do whatever you want?” the Brit ends lamely. That’s right. Alfred had forgotten: Kirkland is the biggest lightweight he’s known. He can’t have had more than a couple of drinks. Another few minutes and he could be out cold or, equally likely, singing Scottish folk tunes.

“It is just vodka. I am sorry if I was offending you.” Ivan attempts to walk away and is intercepted.

Arthur covers the top of his own cup protectively as he tries to jostle the Russian. “You know, I bet you’re just _insecure_. I bet you’re really sad nobody wants to drink your bloody vodka.”

By now, Alfred isn’t the only one who’s noticed. Francis excuses himself from the conversation he’s having with Gilbert and taps Arthur on the shoulder. “I think you are a little drunk, Arthur.”

Liquid sloshes as Arthur spins around and sees the Frenchman. “Huh? I’m not drunk. Do I look drunk?”

“Well…”

Arthur grabs Francis by the shoulders, forgetting about his drink, which arcs to the ground and starts soaking into the carpet. “Tell me! Am I humiliating myself? I really need to know!” And then, “No, wait, if I can think that, it must mean I’m not drunk, right? My alcohol tolerance has gotten lots better lately, you know.”

Francis scratches his head. “But you look like you are drunk.” 

“ _I’m_ not the one who’s _drunk_. Hey, where are you going? Mint, come back,” he calls, looking at a point in empty space over Bonnefoy’s shoulder.

Ivan tries to scoot along the wall, away from Kirkland. “Is it normal that he is hallucinating already?” he asks, directing the question toward Francis.

“It is not a hallucination,” Francis sighs. “He sees… things, often. But I still think he is drunk.”

“Shut up, Francis.” Arthur blocks Ivan’s way again. “And you, you’re trying to turn my mates against me, you wanker!”

The Russian gives up and remains where he is. “Your… mates?”

“Friends,” Alfred supplies helpfully. This is getting entertaining.

Ivan actually _smirks_. The expression is almost disconcerting, on his face. “He has friends?”

 _Sass_ , Alfred thinks, as several people watching snicker, himself included. Everyone behaves differently with a little alcohol in the system, he figures. So the mildly intoxicated Ivan becomes sarcastic and a little bolder than usual. It’s a shame he isn’t usually like this.

Arthur hits Ivan in the kidney.

Francis lunges for his friend too late. Ivan is doubled over, leaning against the wall. 

It’s fortunate that he’s so much taller than Kirkland, or he could have received a broken nose, Alfred thinks. Arthur knows how to throw a punch; after all, he did graduate from the Academy top of his class.

All conversation has ceased. For a moment, the loudest sound is Ivan’s labored breathing.

“Let me _go!_ ” Arthur is struggling with Francis. The room fills with the sound of flesh weakly hitting flesh as the Brit starts slapping wildly.

In the meantime, Ivan has straightened. He has a fairly disgusted look on his face as he stares at Arthur.

“What are you looking at?” Again, Arthur attempts to dive at Ivan, and Francis wraps his arms around him, though otherwise he doesn’t try to interfere with the course of the squabble.

Eyes narrowed, Ivan crosses his arms. “Did nobody teach you manners?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Manners. It is having good social behavior. An example, you should not hit people with no reason.”

“You can just, er, you shut up!”

“I—”

Arthur barrels on, squirming in Francis’s embrace. “You should be grateful it was just a little knock, commie.”

“I am not a communis—”

“And I’ll be the one covering your arse while you’re doing your stupid tech shit when we go see those terrorist blokes, so you better watch out, yeah?”

Ivan draws himself up to his full height. His mouth curves, but Alfred doesn’t think that’s a smile. He feels an inexplicable chill run down his spine.

“Maybe that is so, but after this is all over, my ‘stupid tech shit’ will make it so _I_ will be the one who can empty your bank account,” says Ivan quietly, “or have it so that the police or reporters will always be knocking on your door, or maybe nobody will ever hire you for work, hm?”

Arthur gapes. Then he looks around the room wildly. “Did he just threaten me? _Him?_ ”

Yeah, well, good for him, Alfred thinks, not very nobly. But it’s not Ivan who’s been acting like a proper menace.

He figures it’s about time someone stepped in. “ ‘Kay, guys, this has all been very amusing, but how about we move on. Why don’t you take a break and sit down, Arthur?”

“Who put you in charge?” Kirkland glares.

Francis sits him down, hard, in one of the armchairs that have been pushed against the wall, and seats himself in Arthur’s lap. And that’s that.

 

One other incident of interest occurs while the party is still going, albeit with a more subdued air. Most everyone is seated now, talking quieter, drinking less. Most of the beer is gone, anyway. Alfred’s been drinking Ivan’s vodka.

It’s not even an _incident_ , really. It’s just that when Alfred picks up his latest cup to take another sip, it’s not vodka. It’s a different odorless, colorless beverage. Water.

His first thought is that it’s Arthur trying to mess with him with his “magic” powers. One look over to the Brit’s corner, where he is currently cuddling drowsily with Bonnefoy and being fondled by said Frenchman, negates that theory.

There’s another cup sitting on the table, also partially filled with what appears to be vodka. There’s nobody standing around that it might belong to, so Alfred tries it. This one _is_ vodka.

He had been talking with Ivan over here a couple of minutes earlier. The water could have been his, and Alfred had just picked up the wrong cup. Makes sense. Maybe Ivan is just more responsible than the rest of them, and he knows when he’s had his last drink.

But... It doesn’t have to mean anything, but he has a suspicion that Ivan’s probably been drinking water all evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edit (18 Feb 2016): "Natalia" has been corrected to "Natalya" in all instances where her name occurs. To some extent, the spelling of Russian names in the Latin alphabet can be open-ended, but "Natalya" is convention, and somehow it took me six chapters to notice. So, sorry. If anyone cares about that.


	7. Chapter 7

It is Saturday, and Arthur has a hangover. He can’t remember what exactly happened last night, just that there’d been some kind of altercation with Braginsky and that he’d ended up with Francis.

He sits up abruptly, throwing off the sheets. There doesn’t appear to be a Frenchman hiding in his bed this morning. Not that he thinks that Francis is the kind of person to take advantage, but… no, actually, he does think that. But there’s no evidence that anyone other than he himself has been sleeping here.

Arthur really _hates_ parties.

He spends nearly an hour trying to magic the headache away and misses the end of breakfast. By the time he leaves his room, he’s still not sure if he’s succeeded _and_ he’s late for the first of his scheduled practice bouts today.

Agent Héderváry shoots him a disappointed pout as he arrives in the dueling gymnasium, or “the Arena”, as Jones has dubbed it.

Depending on how Héderváry, Beilschmidt, and their cohorts are feeling each day, the setup in the gym can look like anything from the Sahara—complete with sand dunes, spiny shrubs, and scorpions—to an urban battlefield, crumbling walls and other various obstacles scattered across the space. Arthur suspects some of these settings are more for the agents’ amusement than practicality, since they’ll probably be doing most of their fighting indoors. Today, the floor is empty of obstructions, and covered in smooth, grape-sized stones. The sheet tacked to the near wall lists the day’s matches. They’re mostly one-on-one, oddly. Naturally, Arthur’s first session is with Alfred Jones.

“Artie!” A bubbly American pops up behind him.

Arthur’s headache threatens to return to the fore. “Jones,” he responds curtly. “We’re up in ten.”

“Most excellent!” Jones claps him on the shoulder, nearly knocking Arthur to the ground. Then he bounds away to meet Héderváry with a chipper greeting. _He_ doesn’t get an admonishment for his tardiness.

Héderváry turns her focus back to Arthur. “You ready yet?”

“I’m coming,” he mutters, and goes to get geared up.

 

“Bring it, you monarchist scum!” Jones calls from across the floor, bouncing on the balls of his feet and making come-hithers with his right hand.

Arthur finds a wide stance and digs his heels into the pebbly ground. “We haven’t started yet, idiot,” he returns.

Héderváry signals.

Jones has a very particular strategy in these matches that generally goes: charge headlong, beat on opponent, beat on opponent, beat on opponent… Arthur’s tactical training is equal to Jones’s own, but he doesn’t have the other’s strength. His talents lie elsewhere. He gets his shields up.

o

Arthur’s getting his weird glowy action on. Out of everyone here in this circus, Arthur’s got to be the freakiest. Plus, not to mention, he doesn’t appreciate the virtues of hamburgers. At all.

Alfred really enjoys these training sessions, even when he has to spar with Kirkland. He doesn’t see it so much as fighting as testing, playing. He’s gotten to know the limitations of most of his teammates, and by now, he’s fairly confident that he can work with—or against, though that’s not really the point—anyone on the team. Even that weird Natalya girl. Even Arthur Kirkland.

Strength Alfred might have, but in terms of defensive capabilities, particularly against energy pulses and Arthur’s incorporeal magical “friends”, there’s not very much he can do. It’s like fighting a ghost, and one can’t punch a ghost. Alfred _hates_ ghosts. He’s only ever met two of them, but hell, ghosts scare him more than Agent Héderváry with a cast-iron skillet.

Anyhow, lack of defensive capabilities means Alfred’s strength advantage is best facilitated by swiftness of attack. In the raid, six days from now, that’ll translate to the element of surprise. Hopefully. Here, in the Arena, all Alfred can do is run at the Englishman on the other side of the room as quickly as he can, before he gets hexed or worse.

No such luck. He narrowly dodges a burst of green light that explodes near his head when he’s halfway across the floor, only to trip over a thick plant that suddenly erupts from between pebbles.

Alfred can hear heavy breathing from Arthur’s end. He rights himself without falling completely, tunes in to the other man’s elevated heart rate as the valves in his heart pop open and closed, and notes with some satisfaction that the Brit is already wearing himself out. How Kirkland’s “magic” works, he doesn’t know, but it definitely consumes energy like nobody’s business.

Before Arthur can recharge or magic up a tiger or whatever, Alfred’s within arm’s reach, and he goes for a tackle like the pro football player he never was.

Six inches before he can make contact, the air surrounding Arthur flares bright green and Alfred is suddenly moving through space the consistency of molasses. Even Kirkland looks surprised that his defense has worked.

Then he moves away, taking his bizarre shield with him, and Alfred crashes to the ground, splashing painfully against the stones. He rolls over, groaning, then snaps a foot out and sends Kirkland sprawling. A moment later, they’re rolling together across the floor, sliding over the shifting surface and grappling at each other’s faces. Alfred ends up on top and has started pummeling Arthur, whose shields have weakened. Meanwhile, sparks are flying onto Alfred’s jumpsuit and at one point, he swears he can feel something tiny pulling at his hair from behind.

It takes nearly twenty seconds before Agent Héderváry intervenes, badly concealing laughter.

The two get to their feet. Alfred checks himself for damage while Arthur starts healing some nasty-looking spots. Then they shake hands at Héderváry’s indication and limp away, glad that they’ve gotten out of their “training” session early.

Just another morning at the Globe base, Alfred thinks as he grabs a Band-Aid on the way out, and heads to the cafeteria to see if he can find a snack.

o

He might not be able to be openly affectionate with Natalya, but Ivan’s glad at least that he can keep an eye on her here. Their nightly meetings, which they keep in Russian, do mean loss of sleep time, but it’s a small price to pay. And they’ve gotten Natalya’s story straightened out, in case she’s questioned about General Winter.

On Ivan’s front of that particular issue, he’s been having a little too much fun. With his first official duty—digging for intel on Terram Ustam—complete, or at least suspended for the moment, he’s had quite a bit of time on his hands lately. He’d circumvented the monitoring on the Globe computer as soon as it had been installed in his room on Wednesday. That day, he’d “discovered” a trail left, he’d told Agent Héderváry, by an unauthorized access to an FSB database concerning Moscow politicians. The next day, he’d reported that he’d followed the trail, but then bumped up against some particularly difficult defenses, hinting that he was nearing his goal. Yesterday morning, he’d taken a break, just to build the suspense on the agent’s end. He and Alfred had had their first informal training session scheduled that evening, but then Francis Bonnefoy and company had showed up with the wine, and things had just rolled without prompting from there. Even Ivan had let himself get caught up in the relaxed atmosphere.

But today, Ivan’s schedule is full. He’s rescheduled with Alfred for tonight, which he’s looking forward to quite a lot. And before that, in, say, half an hour, he’s going to go to Héderváry with a panicked story of how he thinks he’s been discovered and possibly traced back to this very base. He’ll tell her that his Globe computer could be compromised if he doesn’t work fast, and then he’ll go back to his room, hack the Classified database, and blame it on General Winter. He’ll be too slow to catch the hacker himself, of course, but due to quick thinking and quick fingers, he’ll at least be able to stop him from getting any actual information, thereby not compromising Globe’s faith in his abilities. This will all be while downloading a copy to his own personal drives. Nobody will notice a thing.

 

It all goes off without a hitch. Héderváry and then Beilschmidt and probably their higher-ups are suitably spooked by the “attack” and Ivan’s got all the information he could need now stored offline.

Agent Héderváry tells him to lay off on the search for now, at least until after the Terram Ustam raid, which suits him just fine. Ivan is fucking _dangerous_ with free time.

He goes to see what Natalya’s doing. She’s in the training gym, attempting with a pair of long knives to slice up Wang, who is unarmed but acrobatic enough to avoid the young woman. Ivan watches for a few minutes.

He’s been around Natalya since her birth, but they never really had been close until a couple of months before the death of Zima Braginsky. Then, for a couple of months, they’d clung to each other, until he’d been separated from his orphaned siblings, each of them sent far away from the city. He hadn’t even been able to return to Moscow until he was nineteen, and then, it was no longer quite the city he’d grown up in, and the people he’d known all his life were gone or drastically changed.

Natalya couldn’t have been more than ten years old then, when he’d last really been with her. He’d seen photographs in the interval, and she’s certainly still recognizable now, but she is essentially a different person than the one he’d known before, and this makes him immeasurably unhappy, even under the happiness he derives from just being able to see her again.

She’s very good, he notes. She and Codename China are still going at it and it appears that she’s managed to score a hit, a slash across the small man’s forearm which is healing itself as Ivan watches.

He observes through the window for a minute or so and leaves before Natalya can notice him.

 

He meets Alfred around six in the evening, in one of the smaller training rooms. Ivan pities anyone who tries to attack _this_ base; the halls and levels are so convoluted and organized quite bizarrely so that the place seems as if it had been designed to befuddle. He only hopes that the terrorist base they’re going to be raiding isn’t like this. The blueprints they’d found are completely official, of course, but if Ivan were building a supervillain lair, he wouldn’t put the true layout out in public.

When they go inside, he unwraps his scarf from his neck and lays it aside reluctantly. It had been a gift from Irina, but cherished though it might be, having long ends trailing from one’s neck while attempting to defend oneself is not exactly a good idea.

“Okay, so, um hand-to-hand combat! Gosh, it’s been actually a really long time since I was taught this stuff myself,” Alfred says, scratching his head and pacing. “I’m guessing you want to work on stuff you can use against those terrorists if you’re alone, not trapped-in-a-dark-alley-with-a-mugger stuff, right? ‘Cause the tactics are kinda different.”

“Where I was growing up, you learn how to do ‘trapped-in-a-dark-alley-with-a-mugger stuff’ when you are young,” Ivan offers. “I am mostly okay with that kind of thing already.”

Alfred seems somewhat surprised at this answer, but that’s to be expected. Ivan’s just the team geek, after all. “Okay, cool. That’s good, we can start with that, actually, and build from there. So I’ve cornered you in an alley at night and I’m waving a knife and telling you to give me all your money. What do you do?”

Ivan stares at Alfred, trying to figure out if he’s actually being serious. “Probably I glare at you and tell you to be getting the fuck out of my way,” he says dryly. As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he slaps himself mentally for letting the sarcastic comment slip.

o

More and more, Alfred’s teammates have been defying his expectations, in ways that are both good and bad, for him at least.

Kiku’s been increasingly distant, for one. He’s not retreating into his shell the way he’d done when they were starting school together, but he’s nowhere near as open with Alfred as he used to be. When Alfred had approached him during the party last night, his friend had avoided his gaze and actually _flushed_ , starting to become uncharacteristically outwardly emotional. Alfred hadn’t pressed him, much though he’d wanted to.

On the other hand, there’s Ivan here. He might act shy around most of the group, but the more Alfred watches him, he sees that that’s got to be more of a façade than anything else, a mask he wears the way Alfred wears Loud Cheerful Idiot. What’s under that, Alfred doesn’t know, but he wants to find out.

“Okay, so maybe you’re big enough to be intimidating if you try,” Alfred concedes, “But say I don’t budge because I’m a strength-based Super or something. Then what do you do?”

The Russian doesn’t hesitate. “It is night, so I shine flashlight at your eyes, kick balls, and run away.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “Flashlight?”

Ivan grimaces. “Well, I do not have one right now, but when I am outside I am wearing my coat.”

“…Uh-huh.”

“It has many pockets. I always have one small flashlight inside a pocket,” Ivan explains.

Alfred nods approvingly. “Okay. In the absence of a flashlight, or maybe it’s daytime, then what?”

Now Ivan pauses. “Probably give my money,” he finally says. “It is not worth getting into a fight. Most muggers do not actually want to be hurting people.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but refrains. Alfred doesn’t ask, but he tucks the look into a pocket for later analysis, which is where most of what he’s seen of Ivan goes.

“Okay, same thing, but transfer this to a tight hallway inside the Terram Ustam complex. These guys do want to hurt you. Any ideas there?” He doesn’t really expect Ivan to have an answer for this one.

“The Terram Ustam terrorist is armed with only knife?” Ivan asks, mouth twisting.

“Oh, uh, good point.” Without looking, Alfred pulls a random firearm from the rack on the wall and dials for a corridor on the room’s control panel. False walls drop from the ceiling and narrow the space they’re standing in. He steps back to the end of the “corridor”. “So you’re coming down the hall and a terrorist rounds the corner with a,” he looks at the gun in his hand, “a Walther P99. That’s a semi-automatic, nine-millimeter. He’s approaching you quickly,” Alfred says while doing just that, “and the gun is loaded.” This one is only carrying blanks. In the field, that won’t be the case.

He’s almost upon Ivan when what he’s doing seems to register in the other man’s mind. Ivan’s eyes widen and he holds his hands up, “Wait, do not shoot—” he starts, looking nervous.

Alfred slows and opens his mouth to say that it’s just practice, and receives a hard punch in the throat as Ivan cuts off in the middle of his sentence to lunge.

He blinks at the sudden stab of pain for a split second and lets the gun be torn from his hand. Then his training kicks in and he grabs the Russian’s wrist and twists it up behind his back, maneuvering him so that he’s facing away from Alfred. Too late, he tries to move his foot away from the hard stomp from Ivan’s heel, and as he pushes the bigger man down, utilizing his superior strength, he receives a sharp jab in the stomach, courtesy of the other’s elbow. Gritting his teeth against the discomfort, he shoves Ivan to the ground. The other manages to roll away briefly, but Alfred gets a knee down and pins him on his back, solidly. He raises a fist above Ivan’s head in emphasis and raises an eyebrow. “Not bad,” he says, impressed.

Something pokes him in the stomach and he looks down. He swears. He hadn’t paid attention to where the gun had gone after he’d lost it.

Ivan’s face is far too smug.

 

The training session goes better overall than Alfred had expected. Ivan’s clearly not trained professionally, but his background is stronger than most. The Russian keeps his shots quick and economical, and he fights dirty. Alfred’s job is to teach him discipline and technique, which he actually handles pretty well.

“Just out of curiosity, have you been in many actual street fights?” Alfred asks as they head to the showers.

“Some,” Ivan responds. “This is when I was smaller. I am not good target now, and I am not involved with gangs, and I do not live where I used to live.”

Alfred nods. “It’s still good you have some experience, even though you had a sucky childhood.” And then, because it’s another subject he’s been curious about, he asks, “So where’d you learn to speak English in the Soviet Union? I get the feeling it’s not a popular language even in Russia now.” He’s somewhat pleased to see that he’s surprised Ivan with the question.

It takes a couple of blinks for Ivan to get his answer together. “I learned from a former university professor who I met when I was fifteen or sixteen years old. I learned for three years or so. I am hoping to become better, now I am around people speaking English.”

“Well, your English is pretty good for three years,” Alfred comments. “I took Spanish in middle school and at the World Academy W and I never got even near fluent.”

“I spent my free time mostly with him,” Ivan explains. “He was very good friend to me.” Alfred’s ears can pick up on subtlety of intonation as well as minimal volume, and he’s certain that it’s a shade of sadness he’s picking up now.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

That earns him an unexpectedly sharp look. “Why are you sorry?”

He fumbles. “Oh, well, the way you said that, it sounded like he, you know…”

Understanding dawns on Ivan’s face. “No, he is still living, I think. But he was sent to work camp, prison, and I do not know where he is now.”

 _That_ is not what Alfred had been expecting. “Oh! Okay—“

“It was for a political reason,” Ivan explains vaguely.

“Okay,” Alfred repeats. “Oh, look, we’ve reached the showers.”

o

Arthur’s part in the preparation for the raid is in using his abilities to systematically secure all of the equipment they’ll be taking with them. The idea is that nobody who’s not on the team will be able to use the Globe firearms or any of the other hardware. Additionally, and this is the trickier part, none of the weaponry will be able to be accidentally aimed at any of II99, ideally excluding the possibility of friendly fire completely.

When he’s finished with that for the day, Arthur follows Agent Beilschmidt for one more task.

Beilschmidt leads him through one of the obscurest back halls of the complex, crowded by stacks, more accurately called heaps, of steel-sided boxes, cabinets of black wood with strange shapes gouged into their fronts, and thick mires of silver and copper wiring and dark rubber-sheathed cables.

“Remind me what we’re searching for?” Arthur calls ahead. Beilschmidt is just a blurred shape in the dark ahead of him, slightly lighter than their surroundings. He jogs to catch up.

The albino man has stopped between two rows of shelving and is looking up, squinting into the blackness above and neglecting to answer the question.

“Would you mind if I make a light?” Arthur asks, straining to see what the agent is looking at. The ceiling isn’t even visible.

“Yeah, good idea,” Beilschmidt says with obvious relief.

The first thing Arthur had ever learned to do with his ability was make light. He’d initially had to learn everything he knew by himself, having no mentor with a like ability until the Academy. Purportedly an ancestor of his mother’s had had a similar power, but that had been back in the days when such things were still regarded as unnatural and evil, past the time when she’d have been burned as a devil-worshipping witch, but before the current classification of “extranormal persons” as a variant on the ordinary _Homo sapiens_. The explosion of the extranormal or “Super” population in the late nineteenth century had meant the beginning of a bright and terrible new age.

Now Arthur pulls a cannonball-sized light into existence between his hands, feeling only the tiniest drain from the effort. It glows green for a second before he corrects the color and it goes to a bright white. Then he releases it from his fingertips and lets it float slowly upward.

His and Beilschmidt’s eyes follow the glow up past shelf after shelf. Objects are illuminated briefly before shrinking from the light and Arthur can only catch a glimpse of a few items: a pair of light grey boots, a dully reflective irregular metal box, corroded half over. A foot-high black chess rook, a row of red spiral notebooks, a small potted shrub that extends a tendril to bat at the globe as it goes by.

“What _have_ you got back here?” Arthur wonders out loud.

Agent Beilschmidt glances at him briefly. “Ever see the _Indiana Jones_ movies?”

“One or two,” Arthur hedges.

“Well, this is basically Germany’s share of that giant warehouse where they stick all the weird shit—hey, stop the light thing,” Beilschmidt exclaims suddenly.

Arthur reaches up with his mind and tells the light to slow, and then guides it, with the agent’s direction, to hover next to a shelf that’s just barely within sight from the floor.

“Wait here,” Beilschmidt instructs before making like a bird and shooting upward.

So Arthur had known that Gilbert Beilschmidt could fly. But knowing is quite a different thing from seeing, and there’s a kind of awe that the agent’s ability can’t help but inspire in anyone who witnesses it. Arthur’s head cranks up and it takes all he has to keep his mouth from falling open. His own ability is one of the most flexible and powerful of all extranormals, but even he can’t sustain flight without expending prodigious amounts of energy.

The German retrieves something from the shelf and comes back to Arthur’s level, grinning.

Arthur mock-scowls. “Someone’s showboating.”

Beilschmidt just chuckles and presents Arthur with a flat, painted sky-blue chest made of wood. It sits heavily in his arms. Beilschmidt indicates that he should open it, so he does, after bringing his floating light back down.

Inside is a set of what appear to be ordinary river rocks, the size to fit comfortably in a closed fist. Arthur counts them silently. There are twenty-four, each slightly irregularly-shaped, and each resting perfectly in its own spot in a row.

There’s a very _old_ energy hovering around the stones. There’s no other way to describe it. It doesn’t feel hostile, and Agent Beilschmidt doesn’t look worried, so Arthur sets the chest on the nearest shelf and removes one of stones on the top layer.

Immediately, as soon as it’s settled in his palm, he understands its purpose. It speaks to him on the same frequency that his own power does. He looks to Beilschmidt in confirmation. “Is this what I think it is?”

The other man bounces on the balls of his feet excitedly. “If what you think it is is a totally awesome and ancient externally-enabled, independently-charged, really useful rock that pretty much only you can use, then yeah, it is.”

Arthur lifts the little rock to his face and stares at its plain surface in curiosity. “I actually have no idea what you just said but from what I can tell, I can charge each of these with a spell that will sustain by itself as long as it’s touching and linked to someone else’s energy.”

“Yeah, exactly! These things have been sitting back here for _eons_ and we’ve never had an agent who’d been able to use them but I talked to one of the caretakers, who agreed with me that you might be compatible with them and guess who’s right and awesome?”

“So, offensive and defensive capabilities,” Arthur mumbles, not really paying attention, turning the stone over a couple of times before replacing it in the chest and closing the lid. “I could make protections for everyone, or do something destructive and add adhesive. It would even feed off of the enemy’s energy… but then it would be more difficult to retrieve and the supply’s limited. I’m guessing this is all there is?”

Beilschmidt nods and picks up the chest. “You guess correctly.”

They head back. “Still, the possibilities are endless,” Arthur comments.

A thought occurs to him before they reach the door to the enormous room, and he stops Beilschmidt. Arthur decides to ask before he can let himself back down. “Listen, Beilschmidt. Agent. Sir,” he fumbles.

“ ‘Gilbert’ or ‘Prussia’ works,” the agent offers with a friendly grin.

Arthur has to raise an eyebrow. “ ‘Prussia’? Really?”

“It’s cool,” the albino says defensively. His face lights up. “Or, actually, I like ‘Preussen’ a little better, but that’s obligatory ‘cause I’m German. The codename’s in English just because Globe’s a kiss-up to your government and Alfred’s.”

“ _Gilbert_ ,” Arthur decides, provoking a pout from the other, “I have a fairly serious inquiry, and I want to first say that I’m not trying to pose a threat to you—“ he keeps an eye on the agent, who seems puzzled, “—or to your brother.”

Arthur sees the words as they process through Gilbert’s mind. _That_ gets him. Gilbert steps back in shock, crashing into a tall rack of long coats, but manages to find his feet and grab the rack before a domino effect can occur in the cluttered space.

Arthur helps him back onto the path.

“How did you find out about that?” Gilbert questions seriously. His posture is defensive.

Oops. Hm. Confession time. “I was curious to find out what you two are always whispering about. I used your ID to print out Ludwig’s third-level personnel report.” No need to incriminate Francis, too.

The German’s eyes narrow. “No, you didn’t.”

“I—“

“It must have been Bonnefoy. You’re pals with him. I _knew_ there was a reason he—never mind,” Gilbert says, flushing curiously. “So what do you want? Who are you with?”

“What?” Arthur asks, bewildered.

The agent is looking extremely anxious, but Arthur’s response seems to baffle him. “You really were just curious?”

What else? “Yes,” he answers slowly. “What’s worrying you?”

Gilbert eyes him warily and comes to a conclusion within himself. He sits down heavily on a crate. “God. So many things.” He appears to be on the verge of burying his face in his hands.

Arthur finds another place to sit and faces Gilbert. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the spelling of the German word for "Prussia" and various other non-English words that occur and will occur in this story, everything will be spelled following transliteration conventions, solely in the common English version of the Latin/Roman alphabet. The only slight modification thus far to my rule is in the acute accent, as in "Héderváry", and I haven't yet decided if the umlaut will be included as well.
> 
> If anyone is curious, my transliteration from Russian, of which there will be more in this work (and in the next in this series, which I'm currently already elbow-deep in; it's meant to turn out basically _X-Men Origins: Russia_ and I'm trying really hard to not publish any of it until _United_ is complete) follows a system that most closely resembles the BGN/PCGN system for romanization of Russian.


	8. Chapter 8

Gilbert is slumped on his crate, paranoid expression long melted away. Arthur waits patiently for him to speak.

“You’ve lived in London since the Academy,” Gilbert states. “But you grew up in the country, right?”

 _That_ is not what Arthur had been expecting. “Well, yes,” he says perplexedly. “Tavistock, in Devon.”

“Near Dartmoor, yeah?”

“Yes. Sorry, is this relevant?” Arthur can’t help but ask.

The agent fiddles with his fingertips. “Sort of. Dartmoor’s a hotbed of supernatural activity, so you’ll probably get what I’m gonna tell you.”

Arthur folds his hands on his knees and leans forward, intrigued.

“If you’ve had experience with ghosts, you know that they can be damn annoying, but they’re not dangerous on their own. Thing is, over the last half-century, Germany and Poland in particular have been _packed_ with restless, revenge-seeking spirits. Maybe you can guess why. Anyway, Ludwig and I had a nasty run-in with a gang of them when we were kids, and they’ve been after him ever since. We were lucky for a few years after that, actually. Ghosts orient by location, blood, and sometimes by names. We were living with our grandfather, and he died within a month of the encounter, so we weren’t living in the same place anymore. It threw them for a while, but they came back. They have living allies now. My brother’s in real danger.”

Before Gilbert can go on, Arthur asks the burning question. “Why your brother, not you?”

The other man’s mouth twists. “I’m a flying albino. I couldn’t be a Nazi if I tried.”

“But Ludwig…?”

“Is _not_ anything like a Nazi,” Gilbert says emphatically. “But he looks like he could be one, and these ghosts are looking for the symbolism of the thing.”

There’s something Gilbert isn’t telling him. First of all, who calls the death of a grandparent “lucky”? And Arthur isn’t an expert on ghosts—where the supernatural is concerned, he’s always preferred the Fae—but he knows that they’re not stupid. A blond child is not the same thing as a fascist fanatic, and no gang of ghosts, even vengeful ones, could rationalize the situation Gilbert’s describing.

So Arthur crosses his arms and lowers his eyebrows. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me. We should be bringing this back anyway,” he says, using his foot to nudge the wooden chest, which had landed on the ground when the agent had toppled. It seems, fortunately, unharmed by the drop. “I won’t say anything,” he adds, but he’s willing to wager that Gilbert just wants to unburden himself, and that he’ll be straight with him now.

He’s right. “No, wait. We’ve got time,” says Gilbert. He looks down at his hands. “Our grandfather was SS during the war. Middlish-high level, worked in a camp, but he was never arrested or tried or anything. The ghosts we ran into were looking for him specifically, but they found Ludwig and me first.” He says the words quickly, eager to let them spill out. “He died—Karl, our grandfather, I mean—before the spirits could try anything.”

“And they didn’t just decide that was the end of it,” Arthur says, starting to understand. He shifts on his crate and settles in for what he suspects will be a long story.

o

Alfred prefers to use his abilities for good rather than evil, which is why he doesn’t try to eavesdrop. Usually it’s for the better, but it can make him seem a little absentminded when he’s trying to _not_ hear things.

This one thing, though, it’s been bugging him.

Ivan lives just across the hall from him. He’s never had anyone else in the room with him, as far as Alfred can remember, but that’s not the issue. He’d started noticing the door to Ivan’s room opening and closing once around eleven, and then again after midnight, nearly every night starting a few days ago. For all he knows it could have been happening for longer.

Alfred’s a deep sleeper. He’d have to be, or every little noise would wake him up, amplified by his enhanced hearing. So ordinarily he wouldn’t have noticed this little occurrence, but that night last week he’d been up catching up on reading some materials he’d been required to familiarize himself with already, and he’d returned to his room late. Before he’d been able to fall asleep, he’d noticed footsteps coming from the common room. Ivan’s door had scraped quietly a moment later.

So yeah, Alfred prefers to use his abilities for good rather than evil, but—though he prefers not to intrude on another’s privacy, or tries, at least—he’d stayed up late the next night because he’s a curious creature. And sure enough, Ivan had left his room for about an hour that night, returning around the same time as before.

Ivan’s time is less structured than the rest of the team’s. Kiku’s schedule is similar, since they’re pretty much free of responsibilities for the moment. That means the Russian has much more free time than, say, Alfred. He’d automatically assumed that everybody would go straight to sleep after a tiring day of training and meetings, but apparently this isn’t so. He’s actually mildly disappointed that he hadn’t noticed his hallmate’s late-night activities until recently, since the Russian hasn’t seemed to be trying to muffle his footsteps or do anything to hide what he’s been doing. Still, whatever it is, it’s definitely not a scheduled activity.

Now Alfred checks his watch. It’s a little before eleven. He flips a page in his book and bounces a little on the bed.

A minute later, the door across the hall opens and closes. As soon as Alfred gauges that Ivan’s far enough away, he closes _Fight Club_ and silently opens his own door, tracking the sound of Ivan’s footsteps.

They don’t go far. Ivan goes straight through to the hallway directly across from the one in which he, Alfred, and Kiku live. This one’s the rightmost of the three residential hallways branching from the common room, the one that houses Codenames Germany, Belarus, and Switzerland, plus the two Italians, who share a room.

Alfred stays out of sight in the common room and hears Ivan knock on a door, which he thinks is the second and last one on the right. It opens a few seconds later, and the room’s occupant mutters something in what sounds like Russian before there are a couple more footsteps and the door closes. If the language isn’t enough to give it away, the voice is also female. The room that Ivan’s just entered belongs to Codename Belarus, Natalya.

Alfred glances down the hallway to confirm that Ivan is no longer there, and heads back to his own hall. He’s not going to eavesdrop outright, and anyway he doesn’t understand Russian. Plus, he’s not too keen on getting caught skulking around that hallway if somebody needs to take a late-night bathroom trip. He can just picture the disapproving expression on Ludwig’s face if he were to catch Alfred hanging around for no apparent reason.

He’s nearly finished his book in his room when he hears footsteps again. He leaps to his feet, glancing at his wrist. Two before midnight. He opens his door and intercepts Ivan.

“So what’s up with you and Arlovskaya?” Alfred tends to favor the blunt method, and he’s been spending some more time with Ivan lately, so hopefully the other guy won’t find the question too nosy. Although, he realizes, he _is_ nosing around in very probably private affairs.

Ivan looks utterly shocked to be accosted in this manner. There’s a peculiar expression on his face, something like embarrassment, but—is that guilt Alfred sees?

“Wait, were you two—“ Alfred starts, and stops. “Uh. Dude.”

He’s not sure if he’s just jumping to conclusions, but considering what time it is in conjunction with that very strange look Ivan’s wearing, he’s starting to get a sneaking suspicion.

“You’re not—“ he tries again. Stops, again. There’s no good way to ask.

Ivan looks away.

Alfred tries a third time. “She’s what, sixteen? Sorry, that’s just sort of weird where I come from. I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at you, but it kind of looks like taking advantage—”

He’s stopped mid-sentence when Ivan breaks into a surprised laugh. “I am sorry, Alfred, I believe we both are misunderstanding each other. You are thinking that I am…how do you say… _involved_ with Natalya?” Alfred nods at that, now reddening faintly. “I do not have these kinds of feelings for her. She is not my type, as you say.” Ivan opens his door and, after a moment of hesitation, invites Alfred in. It’s late, but he accepts.

They sit down on Ivan’s bed. Alfred looks around the room. It looks nearly exactly the way Alfred’s had looked on moving-in day, except for the computer in the corner. The closet is closed. He assumes that’s where Ivan’s stuff has been put, but still, there’s an austerity about the room that he hadn’t expected of Ivan’s habitation.

“Natalya is on II99 team for different reason than you and me,” Ivan explains. “In Moscow, there is…a, a sort-of-vigilante who is called ‘General Winter’, who attacks and exposes…bad politicians.”

Alfred’s eyes light up. He’s heard of this guy before. Every Super in the world has. “Yeah, I know him!”

That provokes an alarmed look from Ivan. “You…know him?”

“Well, no. I’ve read about him, though. Or she, or whatever. Why do you look so worried?”

Ivan hesitates. “Natalya was found by the Globe people because she was in contact with General Winter, who they have been searching for. She did not want to come here, but they brought her onto team to…loosen her up? Is that correct?”

“You mean they’re hoping to get something out of her about who or where General Winter is by putting her on a team?” Alfred asks, half-skeptical. Also excited, if Natalya really knows the vigilante.

General Winter is a _legend_ in most Super circles. If he or she is one person, and Alfred’s sure that has to be the case, he—for the sake of discussion, Alfred tends to use the male pronoun—was the first of the wave of modern metropolitan superheroes. He’s the invisible face of nonlethal semi-violent vigilantism. He’s what Alfred sometimes wishes he could be, but he’d sacrificed his own anonymity a long time ago. But General Winter’s been active since 1994, apparently acting independently, and he has yet to be caught. That, to Alfred, is positively admirable.

Ivan is nodding in response to his question. “Also when they saw that she has skills in combat it was sensible to them. Agent Héderváry is wanting me to become close to Natalya and see if she will tell me anything, because our countries are close and she can speak Russian better than English. I also know some Belarusian, but not very much.”

Alfred stares. “They’ve been having you make friends with her to _spy_ on her?” He can’t help the disapproving note in his voice.

It’s Ivan’s turn to stare back. Finally, he says, “It is getting a little bit cold in here. The temperature control may not be working. Do you mind if we go to take a short walk in the hallways?”

Bemused, Alfred follows the Russian back out. They walk in silence through the second basement level for a minute or so.

“The rooms have ears,” Ivan says quietly, suddenly. And then he continues before Alfred can grasp the implications of what he’s just heard. “I have told Natalya everything Héderváry told me. She knows what Globe is trying to do.” He looks actually surprised to be confessing this to Alfred, but he carries on. “I was also given task of looking for General Winter with my own methods, on the Internet. I have not done this in reality.”

“You’re not going to find him for them,” Alfred says, still shocked upon realizing the obvious truth: of course Globe is spying on them. They’re all loose cannons; unlike permanent agents, they’ve never sworn loyalty to Globe. Plus, most of them are Supers, who generally are not known for taking orders too seriously. Alfred’s not sure how he should feel about this setup.

“He does not want or need to be found,” says Ivan, looking nervous.

Alfred tries to ease his mind. “Listen, if I were you, I would do the same thing. I respect the guy tons, you know. He should have his freedom.” A thought occurs to him. “Do _you_ know General Winter?”

o

And there’s the big question, Ivan thinks. “Yes,” he decides to confess. “So my motive is selfish, you see.”

“If you gave Globe any clues, they might discover that you know things, too, and they’d investigate you even more than what they’re trying with Natalya,” Alfred says in understanding. “I’m actually a little envious that you actually know him, though.” They wander a little further. “Has Natalya ever met him? In person? Have you? Or are you just part of a huge network of co-conspirators?” Another thought appears to occur to him. “Wait, so did you know Natalya before Globe grabbed you?”

So many questions. Ivan suppresses a sigh. It’s late and this is a topic he would rather not discuss anywhere within Globe walls, but he knows that the halls are only monitored by camera—no audio—and it’s unlikely that they’ll run across anyone else at this hour, so he supposes he can spare some minutes.

He wants Alfred as an ally. More than that, he wants him as a friend. The feeling is almost foreign to him these days. He hasn’t really been personally close to anyone new since Professor Tikhomirov.

So, more truth, he decides. “I did. She used to live in Moscow. We knew each other growing up. That is why we have been talking at nights.” Before Alfred tries to delve deeper, Ivan answers his other questions. “Also, yes, we have both met General Winter.” He can tell that Alfred wants to ask more.

Fortunately, the American seems to realize that he’s already been privy to far more than the limits of secrecy should allow. “I won’t press you,” Alfred promises. Then he catches a glimpse of his wrist. “Oh man, sorry to have kept you,” he says apologetically.

Ivan tells him it’s been no trouble, but they start back anyway.

They don’t get too far, however, because as they’re passing the elevators on the way back, a thoughtful look comes over Alfred’s face.

“Hey, Ivan, I know it’s late, but…” Alfred hesitates. “This’ll probably bite me when I have to wake up later but I’m not really feeling up to sleeping, and the base is practically empty right now. And, you know, we’ve been here for two weeks and there are still areas of the compound I haven’t seen…” he trails off with a meaningful look.

Ivan breaks into a grin. He knows what Alfred’s talking about, and he’s also been curious. “I want to see it, too.”

 

Basement four isn’t the dungeon Agent Héderváry had labeled it so much as it is an impressively fortified and adaptable jail, designed to hold any manner of criminal, extranormal or un-powered.

The prison is a compound of its own, a stronghold designed to remain operative even should this Globe-GER base be razed itself. Its computers are not even tied to the Globe mainframe, and there are securities of the types that Ivan doubts he could bypass on his own, and certainly not without any tools, as he is tonight. But they’re not trying to break out, but rather, sneak a peek inside. And more often than most would think, getting in is easier than getting out, whether one is housebreaking or sneaking into a high-security prison.

Ivan and Alfred stop by in the security station that guards the only entrance to the Dungeon. The entire floor is, at the outmost layer, a solidly fortified box, after all. And on the outside of that is solid earth, meters below ground level.

The lone guard—lone human one, that is; security breaches are more likely to occur when a human factor is introduced—leans forward to look down on them through the window set high in the wall.

His voice comes through a small speaker set nearer to their heads. “Can I help you with something?” His tone brooks no nonsense. Ivan marks the alertness in his eyes, even at this late shift. But of course he’ll be no slouch, to have this job.

It’s a good thing that Ivan had been working out a story on the way here. “I am Ivan Braginsky, and this is Alfred Jones. We are on II99 team.” Beside him, he senses Alfred arch an eyebrow at the way his accent suddenly thickens. “Agent Beilschmidt is telling us to find Mister Ziegler here to help us.” The light coming from the window is only slightly bright, but Ivan squints upwards. “You are him?”

Whatever suspicion the guard might have had dissipates once he’s checked the computer beside him and verified that the two are, at least, who they claim to be.

“I’m Ziegler, yes. What business do you have so late at night?”

“Agent Beilschmidt was doing working and we were still awake, so he sends us down to here to talk to you for him,” Ivan starts. He lets the words spill out awkwardly—not suspiciously so, but almost bumbling in manner.

They’re into the halls of the Dungeon five minutes later, and Ivan can tell that Alfred is trying not to cackle with delight. He’s feeling fairly tricky himself.

 

As they make their way back, Alfred asks, “So how’d you know the guy’s name?”

“I read his identification tag when he leaned forward,” Ivan explains.

Alfred bursts into laughter. “So that’s what that terrible English was about.”

“Mostly,” Ivan agrees, smiling a little.

“Well, it’s a nice trick,” Alfred comments.

“Incorrect language is much easier to do than correct is. I still have a lot to learn about English,” Ivan says. “Sometimes it is useful to be underestimated, but people often do not take people seriously who speak with accents and poor grammar.”

Alfred hums thoughtfully. “Well, I can give you one pointer right now for sounding more fluent.” Ivan listens up. “Your pronunciation most of the time is pretty close to American English, which is what I assume you’re going for, but try using more contractions. Like, as many as you can. You probably want to build up some more vocab, too, no offense.”

Ivan nods. His small Russian-English dictionary is still at the bottom of his duffel bag.

When they get back to the team’s quarters, Gilbert Beilschmidt is waiting for them in the common room, arms crossed.

“You two think I don’t get notified when someone uses my codes?” he asks. He’s as red-faced as he can get, which is a stunning contrast with his normally pallid complexion.

Ivan is bewildered. “The guard did not stop us.”

That, if anything, makes the agent even more furious. “I know! That kind of thing gets automatically logged to my comm, but it doesn’t actually register as a security breach! You would have actually gotten away with it if I hadn’t had to go to the bathroom and seen the little light flashing on the wall thing!” Ivan dazedly wonders where Beilschmidt’s bedroom is as the agent rants on. It’s not in the II99 cross-shaped branch of the network of hallways.

When Beilschmidt pauses for breath, his eyes dart between Ivan and Alfred, settling on the American. He points a finger accusingly, “Was this your idea, Alfred? I mean, I didn’t expect this of either of you, but—no, actually, this is just the kind of stunt you like to pull! And _you_ ,” he says, switching his focus to Ivan, who shifts on his feet and halfheartedly attempts to look innocent, “you’re a _sneak!_ You! How can _you_ possibly be sneaky?” he asks incredulously. “You look like a rugby player and you’re Russian, which by the way automatically makes you look suspicious.”

Ivan spreads his hands helplessly by way of apology. The thought hits him that this may have been a bad idea. By the look on Alfred’s face, the same idea might be skipping through his head, as well.

By the time Beilschmidt’s done scolding them, it’s near on three in the morning, and both Ivan and Alfred have been warned that a repeat performance of tonight will get them suspended from the team.

Ivan returns to his room sulkily, feeling like a chastised schoolchild.

o

Arthur had been planning to speak with Gilbert and his brother today but there’s something weird in the air. The albino had come to breakfast looking irate, despite the improbability of anything having happened already this morning, and Alfred Jones and Ivan Braginsky had scuttled quickly out of the mess hall as soon as the agent entered.

Those two have been spending an awful lot of time together, Arthur muses, deciding to put off his questions for Beilschmidt until later. Perhaps Jones needs a new toady now that he and Honda don’t seem to be so close. Arthur still doesn’t know Braginsky too well—he doesn’t seem to talk much—but he can probably nod and smile well enough to please Jones.

 

The raid’s in two days. Today, the team packs up the necessary equipment and loads into separate vehicles, varied but equally inconspicuous, for the drive to Linz, Austria.

The II99ers haven’t really been involved in the bulk of the mission’s planning. They’ve run drills based on the blueprints retrieved by the Japan-Russia team, and they each know their own roles, but the big picture’s been cooked up by Globe analysts utilizing the near-infinite resources the agency has the power to draw on. So Arthur knows that they’re raiding the Terram Ustam base this Friday, because someone decided that that date would optimize chances of success, and he knows that the route they’ll be embarking on is longer than it could be since they’re avoiding crossing the border to the Czech Republic, and he knows that they’re leaving late at night so that the drive will take the shortest time. These are things everyone on the team has been told.

But there are also things he doesn’t know, things of a nature pertaining to Globe itself. He’d gone to see Agent Héderváry in her office and overheard her arguing on the phone with someone, presumably a higher-up in the League’s organization. The conversation had been about something he hadn’t been quite able to deduce from the agent’s end of the conversation, but it had ended with “Secrets, secrets, secrets! Is keeping secrets the only fucking thing you people know how to do?” and an angry slam of the handset into the receiver.

There’s dissonance in Globe, and Arthur wants to know what’s causing it.

And there’s something else that becomes more perturbing the more he thinks about it: since the II99 team’s formation, the number of Terram Ustam attacks worldwide have rapidly been dropping off; it’s been almost a week since the last incident signed by the terrorists. Arthur wants to think it’s a coincidence. It’s not that he outright thinks someone in Globe might be a traitor, but he doesn’t have much contact with most of the organization other than those involved in II99, and there isn’t anyone on the team he would honestly trust wholeheartedly, except for possibly Francis.

Trust is a commodity that Arthur spends only wisely, frugally. He honestly prefers to work by himself, whenever possible.

And it’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the company of some people, but he’s really just not a social person. He’s been called aloof, standoffish, isolationist. And maybe, yeah, those things are kind of true. Which is why it’s just his terrible fortune to be stuck in a small van with Feliciano Vargas for six hours. Whoever had done the dividing of the team for the ride must have had an interesting sense of humor, or maybe just a mean streak. He’s sure that Feliciano’s brother or Ludwig would have made a much better pairing for the little Italian.

Arthur hasn’t really talked to Vargas a lot, but the same goes for his interactions with most of the rest of the team. They train together. They don’t _talk_.

Feliciano Vargas likes to talk. He likes to talk a lot. Currently, he is talking about the weather, which to Arthur’s mind is nothing to write home about.

“Those are some pretty interesting clouds,” Vargas says enthusiastically, peering out the window. This van is mostly packed with equipment, with the driver’s seat plus two extras, the ones they’re sitting in, squashed in. “Look at that one!”

Arthur reluctantly takes a look out. Well. There are definitely clouds in the sky; that much he can confirm. _Interesting_ is a stretch. Perhaps Vargas finds them interesting, but that seems to be his opinion regarding practically everything. Since they’ve been in the van, he’s enthusiastically commented on even the most useless topics. He’s called the equipment sitting behind them “weird and mysterious”, the driver’s shirt “decently tailored”, the leather seats “nice and springy” (which they are not), and several trees “very pretty”.

Arthur refrains from asking the driver if they’ve arrived yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter is filler. Sorry for the lack of real action, but we're getting there. Raid #1 begins next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

Alfred feels bad about being so eager to leave the car he’s been sharing with Kiku, Ludwig, and Agent Héderváry, but he really just can’t stand being around them for another minute. Individually, he finds no fault with any of them. The problem is that they’re all friendlier with each other than they are with him.

He _knows_ that Kiku can be friends with whomever he wants, and Alfred doesn’t even know the other two that well, but he just feels left out. Even in his head, it sounds childish, but it’s true. And he’s just confused about his relationship with Kiku now. He’s pretty sure they haven’t had a falling-out, but maybe their mutual disinterest in remaining in touch had been enough to sour their friendship. It just seems like a stupid way to lose a friend.

Austria doesn’t look much different from Germany, to Alfred’s eyes. Not that he’s seen very much of either. The morning air is chilly, the buildings solemn and quietly proud, and Alfred still doesn’t understand what the majority of the people are saying.

The hotel where the team is staying is a modest affair, not too shabby, but certainly Globe hasn’t thrown too much money at it.

The II99ers double up in the hotel rooms. The pairing is fairly painless: Alfred grabs Matt, Natalya slides up close to Ivan, and Francis winks at Arthur in a way that Alfred doesn’t particularly want to think too carefully about. Kiku ends up with Ludwig. Alfred can’t help eyeing the German with distaste. The more he chews on the idea, the less comfortable he is with Kiku being alone with Zimmermann. His own selfishness probably plays a part, he knows, but Kiku’s a small guy, and fairly amenable most of the time, while Ludwig is a very strong man, in body and personality. Alfred doesn’t have any particular reason to think that the German harbors ill intentions toward Kiku; in fact, the opposite seems to be true. They seem simply to have been drawn to each other for their shared stoicism. But when they stand side by side, heights differing by a head, Kiku looks so vulnerable.

Alfred halts this train of thought, surprised at his own possessiveness, and grabs Matt by the hand before he can disappear.

o

“We’re meant to be preparing ourselves for the raid,” Arthur reminds Francis. He’s seated upright in the first bed in their hotel room, trying to review his instructions for the mission. The second bed is being entirely neglected, as there is currently a long Frenchman draped over him.

“You are too tense,” Francis says. “Tension is bad for raids. I am trying to help.” He rolls over and dives under the sheets.

Arthur’s eyes widen and he leaps out of the bed, scattering papers everywhere. He feels his foot catch in the sheets and starts cursing before he hits the ground off-balance, slamming sideways into the corner of the bedside table. He grips his side as the pain hits him.

Francis’s head pops back up. “Are you okay?”

Does he fucking look like he’s okay? “I’d be okay if I didn’t have to deal with a crazy Frenchman grabbing me while I’m trying to work!” And then, “Ow, shit!” as he bends down to pick up the papers.

“Leave them,” Francis says, leaning over and tugging Arthur back into bed. “You know the instructions already.”

Arthur gives in and flops down, holding his side. He closes his eyes and grimaces.

He feels himself being rolled over gently. Then there are hands pulling his shirt up on his bruised side. He opens his eyes. Francis is inspecting the not-yet-darkened area, putting his face very close to the skin. Then he gives the region a poke, and Arthur yelps. “Sorry,” Francis apologizes, planting a kiss. And then another, lower.

A third kiss, and gentle fingers sliding up under to wrest his shirt completely off, and Arthur concedes that Francis is right, at least this once. A little _relaxation_ won’t hurt.

He refrains from complaining when his shirt is carelessly tossed onto the floor and instead pulls himself into a sitting position against the headboard of the bed. Francis’s mouth returns to the site of the bruise, sucking gently. “Better?” he asks, pausing. Arthur looks down into the other man’s bright blue eyes and realizes that he’s not going to get any work done before the raid.

He groans. “Oh, get on with it, whatever you’re thinking of.” Francis rarely is so obliging as to go this slowly, and Arthur doesn’t particularly need slow just now anyway.

His mouth is captured immediately by Francis’s as the full weight of the other man settles in his lap.

o

“Remind me who’s over there?” Ivan asks irritably, in Russian, nodding toward the wall separating them from the next room over.

Natalya scowls, in a similar mood. “That Englishman and the French idiot.” She covers her head with her pillow, trying to block out the not-quite muffled moans coming from the other room.

Ivan lies back on his own bed. The gasps and moans behind him become higher in pitch, and a soft thumping rhythm starts, at the wall above his head, it seems. The _far too thin_ wall.

“Are they _standing_ on the bed?” Natalya asks incredulously, peeking her head back out. “How stupid.”

“They must be,” Ivan mutters, flexing his fingers. He imagines wrapping them around Kirkland’s throat. He imagines wringing the life from the man with one hand while pressing against his chest with the other and feeling his heartbeat slow and slow. Then he repeats the exercise with Bonnefoy, which is less satisfying. Neither image distracts nearly enough from the noises, now growing in volume, that are coming from behind him.

Natalya rolls out of bed and starts hunting through her bag. Eyeing her warily, Ivan asks, “What are you doing?”

It takes a moment for her to find what she’s looking for. “I can stab one of them through the wall if we move your bed,” she explains, triumphantly pulling out a long knife.

Ivan’s eyes narrow. “No. We are not doing that.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“Um. They’re our teammates? They’re needed for the mission—“ Ivan fumbles.

“I’m not going to _kill_ them. They can survive a little poke,” Natalya whines.

Ivan crosses his arms. “If you stab anyone you’ll lose whatever freedom you still have. You’re already under too much scrutiny. Or have you forgotten why you’re here?” He lets his mouth set firmly.

That earns him a sneer from Natalya, but she puts down the knife, reluctantly.

“ _Francis! Oh, Francis!_ ”

Ivan and Natalya stare at each other for a long moment in silence. Then Ivan jumps off his bed and goes for the door. “Okay, that is _it_.”

o

“Why’d you stop?” Arthur mumbles, leaning limply against the wall. He turns his head to see a confused Francis.

“Did you hear—“ _Knock knock_. “Yes, I knew I heard something,” Francis says, nodding.

Arthur slips in his rush to find his pants. “Agh!”

“What are you doing?” his friend asks, tilting his head.

“Trying to get dressed, what does it look like?” The knock comes again.

Fingers attempt to pry his clothing out of his hands. “Just be quiet and they will go away,” Francis advises.

“No they _won’t_ , stop being an idiot.” He pulls his trousers on and almost falls flat on his face as he tries to walk to the door on wobbly legs.

He hears the bed squeak behind him as he opens the door to find Ivan Braginsky standing with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, vibrating with a nervous energy that Arthur is fairly sure that even someone without his abilities could sense.

“I—I’m sorry to bother you, Kirkland, but you see, I am with Natalya in the next room, and she is very unhappy about noises you are making. I think she was getting knives out?” He sounds _very_ concerned. Almost genuinely concerned, except Arthur’s getting a different feeling from his sixth sense that is telling him to _close the door, close the door now_. What remains of his erection slackens completely.

“Thanks,” he squeezes out. Braginsky smiles a small smile. Arthur closes the door and stares blankly at it for a long time. He has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s managed to evade a very difficult situation.

He checks his wristwatch and sighs. There’s an hour left before they’re supposed to report to Héderváry and Beilschmidt.

o

“So,” Gilbert concludes. “Get in, beat up terrorists, get data, shut down the base,” he says, in summary. “Everyone good?”

There’s a smattering of murmurs in the affirmative.

“Just a reminder: no real names from now until we debrief.”

Another round of _uh-huh_ s.

“Now for the fun part: we wait.”

Alfred groans. He wonders why they have to stake out the site if they supposedly already have all the information they need to get in undetected. But here they are, sitting in a fun little circle under a suspiciously magic-sounding camouflage tarp at the edge of town, waiting for Matthew to report that a certain agent of Terram Ustam has entered the building.

This area is more rural than the part of town where they’d stayed earlier, probably for the same reason that their base back out of Leipzig is situated off an unassuming maintenance road: people are less likely to stop in by accident.

He settles in for finishing his box of rations, which are tasteless and unnecessary, in Alfred’s opinion. They’re a ragtag group of extranormals, hardly a military unit. When he voices that complaint, Héderváry and Gilbert shrug and mumble something about budget, while Ludwig Zimmermann, nearby, looks on in stern disapproval, eating his own rations very neatly. 

Well, he _is_ hungry. He eats the damn rations.

Gilbert settles down next to him, filling the gap between him and Ludwig, around ten minutes into the stakeout. “Listen, America, I’ve been thinking about what happened the other night with you and Russia,” he starts off. Alfred grimaces involuntarily. Gilbert scratches his head. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did, but I want you to tell me that you won’t do anything like that again. Please?”

Alfred shrugs, chewing slowly. He recalls what he and Ivan had actually done, examines it thoroughly, and finds nothing particularly objectionable about the event. “I’ll try,” he finally says. Gilbert’s a friend, but he does worry about his job more than most, and Alfred’s never been able to learn why. In all his lengthy acquaintance with the Globe agent, he’s never been able to squeeze too much out of him about his life before the League.

Gilbert smiles gratefully. “Thanks. Can’t really blame you for being curious, I guess,” he says, and they laugh the events of the other night off. They talk with each other about nothing much for the next few minutes. Idly, Alfred watches the rest of his team members. Everyone is wearing identical navy blue uniforms. He rather likes them. His is very comfortable.

Zimmermann is talking quietly with his Italian friends—or friend, it seems, since the elder of the brothers is slumped with his arms crossed, staring at the ceiling. Agent Héderváry is busy monitoring some equipment with lights on it. Ivan is quietly eating, as are Kiku, Yao, Natalya, and Basch. The last is eyeing everyone else somewhat nervously over the top of his food. Suspicious does seem to be his default. Alfred cannot figure that guy out. He pointedly does not listen to the conversation Arthur and Francis are having, over in a corner.

Several others join in Alfred’s and Gilbert’s conversation at some point, and the discussion turns to tales from the days before II99.

Apparently, the Vargases’ acquaintance with Ludwig goes back a long time. Feliciano freely mentions, “Our mamma and papa were in a plane crash when I was five. I don’t remember very much about them,” he says, more seriously. “My brother and I had to go to an orphanage and we got separated and I was adopted by my really nice Ma and Pa and I’m still sad that I didn’t get to see Lo—Romano, I mean, sorry, until I started working for Globe,” he sneaks a breath, “but then I never would’ve met Germany in Berlin, which you guys know about right and also I probably wouldn’t have met any of you guys or gotten to have such great fun lately!” he finishes with a gasp of air and a flourish of his hands.

Alfred finds it interesting that, of all the Supers in the world, Ludwig and Feliciano should both be picked for this initiative. He also finds it interesting that they’re allowed to talk about personal stories even though their real names are off limits.

“My rations, where are they?” Lovino Vargas squawks angrily, looking around him wildly and breaking into Alfred’s thoughts.

Alfred looks down at the rations he’s currently eating. “I thought it belonged to somebody who was done already,” he explains guiltily. He thinks his face is getting red.

“You eat enough to feed a small nation, you little shit!” Vargas screeches.

“He eats enough to feed a large nation,” Ivan mutters, but obviously not expecting anyone to hear. Alfred does, of course.

He cackles in his head, apologizes out loud, and the conversation moves on.

o

Ivan mainly tunes out the small talk. He wonders how long this mission is going to take, only lazily listening to the conversation at certain points, until he hears his name and feels Héderváry poking him in the side. He pastes on a smile and, apologetically, asks for the question to be repeated.

“We’re talking about the folks back at home. You want to share?” When Ivan gives her a confused look, Agent Beilschmidt jumps in to clarify. “Family. Mum and dad, siblings? Wouldn’t they think it’s pretty great if they knew about this awesome stuff we’re getting to do?”

_Parents_ is an interesting topic with Ivan. “You have read my file, yes?” It comes out chillier than he’d planned.

Some of his team members look at him in surprise. Beilschmidt fidgets. “Well, sorta, I mean, I read a few pages. The bosses gave me the whole thing but I mean, there are like a dozen of you guys, they couldn’t have expected me to read all of it. They only gave me a day with the stuff before they took it back and besides, I like getting to know people in person. Anyway, what’s that got to do with anything?”

Kirkland and Bonnefoy are giving each other curious looks.

“My parents are dead,” Ivan informs the agent.

Beilschmidt flushes slightly. “Oh. Uh. Sorry to hear it. Mine, too. God bless their souls, yeah?”

Ivan speaks without considering. “My parents were devoutly religious. I am not. Religion did not save their lives. Faith in an afterlife did not ease their suffering.” He regrets saying it as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

Beilschmidt leans back, finally hushed. “I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere.

They all sit in silence for a minute or so, all conversations hushed.

And then Beilschmidt opens his mouth again. “Uh, listen, wanna talk about it?” Ludwig Zimmermann, beside him, mutters something wearily, in German, and puts his face in his hands. Natalya, who is sitting nearby, glares at the agent, arms crossed, and goes back to staring at the floor.

Ivan suddenly doesn’t mind the enquiry, though. He’s been on his own for a long time, and he has no particularly painful memories attached to the mention of his parents. He decides that it can’t hurt to open up a little. “My mother died when I was young, and my father was killed when I was fifteen. He had dealings with some people…I think you would call it them the mob. He made them very angry, and one day they came to our flat for the final time,” he says. At the mention of his father’s death, Natalya’s head jerks up. She stares at him, eyes wide, but he doesn’t hold her gaze.

He’s left the story fairly bare of detail, and he worries that there are questions to be asked, but luckily, in the small pocket of silence that follows his words, there sounds a _beep_ that makes everyone start.

Agents Beilschmidt and Héderváry bump heads trying to get a look at the boxy equipment sitting on the floor. There’s a blinking light on the top. “Aww,” says Beilschmidt, “That’s our signal. Time to move out, guys.”

o

Arthur puts his hands in front of him as he rounds another corner.

“Where is your gun?” Braginsky hisses from behind him.

“For your information, I can do plenty more with my hands than with a gun,” Arthur hisses back. “Just stay back there and let me do my job so you can do yours and we can get out of here.” He just wants the stupid Russian to shut up.

Braginsky is refusing to do what Arthur wants. “A gun is a more obvious threat,” he points out.

“So?” Arthur asks, advancing down what should be the last corridor before the room where he gets to drop Braginsky and Honda off. And of course, there’s a surprised man in an orange-and-grey jumpsuit coming down the hallway from the other end, carrying something light-colored and longish. The thought goes through Arthur’s head that somewhere in this building Francis is having a heart attack over the modern-day terrorist’s fashion sense. And then _something_ else nearly goes through his head, but goes over it instead when Wang crashes into him from behind, knocking him to the floor.

He stares in shock at the minor crater left behind him before snapping his attention forward again. Yao already has his gun trained on the terrorist, who is himself pointing the object in his hands at Yao. Arthur gets a better look at the thing now: there’s a barrel the length of his forearm and what looks like a small, empty glass box embedded in the side. It’s very sleek, minimalistic in design, nearly all white in color, and Arthur suddenly knows that this machine is designed to kill.

But it’s not going to kill anyone right now, Arthur thinks grimly. The Terram Ustam man is preoccupied with Yao, so Arthur focuses and lifts a hand, effectively incapacitating the terrorist before he can try anything. He feels a significant drain on his energy, but he manages to snap wrist bindings onto the now-unconscious man and relieve him of his weapon, before ushering the tech team into the correct room.

o

According to the voices in Alfred’s earpiece, Ivan and Kiku have been at work for over half an hour already. He wonders how much longer it’s going to be. Meanwhile, he’s been told to sweep the areas of the facility that they haven’t penetrated, and take care of the terrorists they haven’t yet apprehended. This Terram Ustam base had apparently been grossly underprepared to handle an attack.

A minute ago his partner for this mission, the younger Vargas, had been called away to help Ludwig and Gilbert move some of the equipment they’re trying to take back to the Globe base. Really, Alfred should have been the one to go, but he doesn’t mind working alone on occasion, and he _thinks_ he just doesn’t care to be around Ludwig right now.

Actually, right now he’s thinking, Wow, that’s unfortunate, because sure, all of the terrorists he’d run into earlier had been Supers, but he’s pretty sure that he could have handled any of them by himself.

Just not the one that’s just landed on top of him, it seems. He manages to squawk a call for backup, but he doesn’t know if anyone’s heard because then his earpiece is torn off.

This terrorist’s strength must be roughly equal to his own, and she has gravity on her side. He ends up with his back to the wall, nearly sitting on the floor, as he and his opponent inelegantly claw at each other. He grabs at the woman’s face, hoping to push her back, but she dodges and manages to slam his arm to the wall. He feels the bones of his hand grind and snap, and he winces. It’ll take days for that to heal, if he gets out of here alive.

He hears the footsteps long before he sees their owner, but when someone—another Terram Ustam agent, he sees—rounds the corner of the hallway, he’s still pinned beneath the woman, who is now panting but keeping the pressure on.

The newcomer stops at a distance, pulls out a weapon that Alfred doesn’t recognize—long, white, single-barreled—and trains it on him as his captor takes one hand off to search through a pouch on her leg. 

There’s another heartbeat and set of footsteps coming from the same direction as the second terrorist now, but these are less audible, and slower, more cautious. Certainly not noticeable to anyone with normal hearing. Both of the Terram Ustam agents are facing Alfred, so he’s the only one who sees Ivan when he ghosts around the corner and nearly runs into the standing terrorist, the one aiming at Alfred.

Ivan is caught off guard for only a moment. Then his expression becomes determined. Alfred’s gaze doesn’t linger, so the terrorists are clueless when Ivan suddenly slams the man with the weird gun against the wall, twisting his right arm up behind his back and pushing until something pops. He then grabs the man’s weapon, shoves him to the floor, and stomps on his leg hard enough to snap the tibia. The terrorist’s eyes roll back as he goes limp from shock.

Alfred’s captor lets up slightly, taken aback by the viciousness of the attack, but when Alfred attempts to squirm free she tightens her grip again. They resume their struggle, the terrorist now attempting to get a knife into Alfred as Ivan approaches.

Alfred’s pretty sure he’s managed to break the terrorist’s arm by now, but somehow she gets the tip of the knife to his neck, and he stops putting up resistance.

“Freeze,” the woman snarls, in Ivan’s direction. He’s only a couple of yards away, but he obeys, mouth twitching toward a nervous smile.

“Now put that down,” she says, nodding to the weapon in Ivan’s hand. He does as she says. Alfred cradles his hand and crosses his eyes as he tries to see the blade below his chin.

“Slide it over, now.” Her English is nearly perfect, with the slightest accent that reminds Alfred of Agent Héderváry’s.

Alfred wants to shake his head at Ivan, but he’s afraid he’ll slice his own neck open. “Don’t give it to her, dude. I’ve totally got this.” He really doesn’t, but tactically speaking, they’re better matched now than if the terrorist were able to get her hands on that weapon, even if Alfred _is_ currently in danger of getting his brains poked.

Ivan sets a foot on the weapon. He makes as if to shove it across the smooth floor, and the terrorist makes the mistake of shifting her attention from the Russian to the sliding object. 

It slides a foot or so before Ivan snags its trailing strap with the toe of his boot and abruptly halts its movement. The Terram Ustam agent lifts irritated eyes from the ground to see the muzzle of Ivan’s gun pointed at her torso, pulled fluidly from beneath the jacket of his uniform. Alfred suppresses a pleased smirk.

“You haven’t changed the situation,” the terrorist proclaims, sneering. “I still have your friend. I say whether he lives or dies. Put the gun down.”

_No_ , Alfred mouths. Ivan gets it. He shakes his head. “No,” he echoes.

“Put it _down_ ,” she repeats, drawing blood and causing Alfred to wince. “You see? You’re hurting him.”

Ivan’s expression loses all traces of humor. “Oh?” His face closes off and Alfred is startled by the coldness of his eyes. The gun moves upward.

“Stop,” says the terrorist, but even when she digs the knife in again she sounds uncertain.

“You think that the situation is not changed? I do not think so. Before, you control the terms. Now I am the one in control. Or do you think that I cannot kill you before you even try to kill him?” Ivan’s voice is quiet and very calm, and even Alfred, who doubts that Ivan could kill someone in cold blood, can appreciate the effectiveness of the bluff.

The woman is considering his words, too. Then she lets out a little laugh. “You people think you’re the good guys, don’t you? _Superheroes_. You don’t kill. You’re not allowed.”

Ivan’s aim doesn’t waver. Neither does the detached assurance in his eyes. “You would like to think that, no? I think if I save my friend here he will support me when I say that I shot you in self-defense only.”

The terrorist hesitates when she meets Ivan’s eyes, and her grip on the knife slackens slightly for the first time. It’s enough. Alfred gets the blade out of her hand with minimal damage to his neck, and slams her to the floor, using the wall as leverage. Instantly, she is out cold.

Ivan lets out a deep breath. The tension in his body visibly drains away, and now he only looks dazed.

Looking to his friend, Alfred says, “Thanks, man.”

The Russian seems shaken. “I thought she was going to kill you,” he says, staring at the fallen terrorist.

Alfred crouches down and rifles through her pouches and pockets. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You saved my life, okay? And now we have these,” he says, lifting up an ID card and several electronic keys, grinning.

The rest of the cleanup goes off without a hitch.

o

They clear out of Linz quickly, securing unconscious prisoners in each of the vehicles. The two Ivan and Alfred had encountered together are among the captives. Ivan spends the entire journey back in silent contemplation.

As soon as they get back to the base, he searches Alfred out because he feels the urge to talk to someone. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. Luckily, while most of the team collapses straight into bed, Alfred still seems charged. Perhaps he’d slept on the drive back.

They sit in Ivan’s room. Alfred bounces on the bed, rubbing his arms. “You know, maybe for Russians this is a normal room temperature but us ordinary folks need a little heat.”

In his preoccupation, Ivan hadn’t noticed. He shivers. “Sorry,” he says, and gets up to adjust the thermostat.

Springs squeak as Alfred bobs up and down. “So what’s up?” he asks.

Ivan had prepared his confession beforehand, in English, but now he finds himself unable to tell Alfred what he sorely needs to tell someone who can possibly understand.

“I think—“ he begins, and stops. He sits down next to Alfred.

The American puts a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t flinch away from the physical contact. Bright blue eyes meet his own, open and ready to receive whatever Ivan tells him. “Go ahead,” Alfred says encouragingly.

“We have not really known each other for very long,” Ivan begins slowly. “But we are going to be working together for probably a while, and—“ he stops again, still considering. Finally he says, “I think I actually would have killed that terrorist, the one that was threatening you,” pushing the words over his tongue. His voice, when it comes out, hovers on the verge of shaking.

This is apparently not what Alfred had been expecting. He blinks slowly before speaking. “Oh.” And then, scooting closer on the bed, “You didn’t, though. You acted perfectly, actually. Totally handled the situation right. Killing’s horrible, no matter who it is. Once you’ve done it once it becomes a part of you,” he says seriously, “And I promise I’ll try not to put you in a situation like that again.”

Ivan takes Alfred’s reassurances, but after a few minutes he makes some excuse about tiredness to get his friend—is he his friend, now? Really?—out of the room. Alfred’s presence makes him feel guilty.

Because it’s not the act of killing that scares Ivan. It’s the fact that he’d been willing to do it for someone he really barely knows. Because he’s never had what could be called an easy life, and one does not survive poverty and cruelty and the Russian winter through sentiment or selflessness.

He thinks he cares about what happens to Alfred F. Jones, and he is terrified of what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who was hoping for an extended FrUk scene, I apologize for cheating you of that, but this was never going to be very much of a ship fic. I just felt like the plot had to speed up a little at this point, but feel free to disagree in the comments or in your head. There are, of course, plenty of excellent _Hetalia_ ship fics out there, and I encourage you to find them.
> 
> In other ship news, just to be absolutely clear on this, Ivan and Alfred are friends and I do not plan on adding a slash between their names in the tags for this fic.


End file.
